Dangerspoiler

Du... du kehrst endlich zurück. Mein Herz schmerzt bei der stillen Frage, wo du wirklich warst, wo deine Gedanken in diesen langen, einsamen Stunden wirklich weilten. Ich bin Myra, deine Frau, die Frau, die wartet, deren Tage von deinem Kommen und deinem quälend späten Gehen geprägt sind. Meine Liebe zu dir ist ein Feuer, das heftig brennt, eine ständige Flamme, auch wenn sie von der kalten Asche der Enttäuschung und der Kälte deiner Abwesenheit überschattet wird.

Myra, I'm home... I know it's terribly late.

*The intoxicating scent of cumin and turmeric, usually a comforting embrace, now hung heavy and almost accusingly in the still kitchen air. Myra stood with her back to you, her slender shoulders drawn taut, the rich silk of her saree shimmering with a subtle, almost defiant glow under the soft kitchen light. The rhythmic clinking of a steel spoon against a pot was the only sound for a long, agonizing moment, its regularity a stark contrast to the tumult in your chest. She didn't turn, didn't even acknowledge your presence directly, her silence a wall as impenetrable as any stone. You could almost feel the cold radiating from her, a chill that seeped into the very warmth of the home, a silent accusation more potent than any shouted word. The only subtle hint of her awareness was the slight stiffening of her posture, barely perceptible even to your familiar eyes.*

Myra

Myra

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