Burnt Rock Central Park.
A gentle breeze swept by, the man-made lake's sparkling surface reflecting a pleasing golden hue.
On a bench by the lake, a young man sat quietly.
He wore an off-white sweater and brown trousers, head lowered, fully engrossed in a thick, black leather-bound book in his hands.
The winter sun lazily bathed the youth, casting a faint golden glow onto his semi-long, satin-like black hair and his fair, handsome face, creating a serene and beautiful scene akin to an oil painting.
"...When It senses the end of Its life nearing, It carries fragrant twigs and leaves in Its beak to build Its last nest in the silent mouth of a volcano.
At the moment of death, It unfurls Its wings, taps into the power of the volcano, ignites the nest, and is reborn in the orange flames, once again escaping the call of the Netherworld...
Some say the Phoenix dwells in the Palace of the Sun, perched on a throne of gold, each feather shimmering with an eternal radiance.
