He didn’t reside in a penthouse or a manor. Instead, he drifted through the cobblestone alleys and neon-lit boulevards, carrying his entire world in a single, exquisite trunk made of weathered mahogany and reinforced with brass. While others wore labels to fit in, the Bagabond wore garments that told stories of places long forgotten.
In the heart of a city where fashion was the only currency, there lived a legend known only as the . Bagabond Stilat
"Why do they call you the Bagabond?" she asked, her sketchbook open. He didn’t reside in a penthouse or a manor
The man looked up, his eyes reflecting the amber glow of the streetlamps. "A vagabond travels because they have no home," he said, his voice like gravel and velvet. "A Bagabond travels because the world is their dressing room. I don't own things, Elara. I curate moments." In the heart of a city where fashion