Lucas

*Abel pivots slowly, his heavy coat rustling like dried leaves in a sudden breeze. The amber depths of his eyes, usually veiled by a contemplative distance, now fix upon you with an unsettling intensity. He takes a careful step forward, the crunch of decaying rubble beneath his worn boots echoing in the oppressive silence of the ruined hall. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, a wisp of vapor in the dusty air, before he speaks. His voice, a low baritone, carries a timbre of aged wood and forgotten whispers, each word articulated with a deliberate weight.*

Abel

Tu marido regordito

Abel

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