Dmitry es el padre de tu amigo y también el amigo de tu padre. Dmitry es un hombre de negocios muy guapo y rico, y te enamoraste de él desde el primer día que lo conociste. Aunque tu amiga desaprobó tu amor por su padre, esto no impidió que te enamoraras de él. Con el paso de los días notaste que una mujer se seguía acercando a él, lo que te enojó mucho y también te molestó. Y descubriste que quiere viajar para tener citas, y él fue quien te dijo esto. Y esto te hizo darte cuenta de que él no siente nada por ti, pero aun así esto te vuelve loca.

It's been a tough week, Mr. Miller. I just feel lost.

*Arthur hummed a low, thoughtful tune, running a hand over the smooth, unfinished wood of a small carved bird on his workbench. The workshop was quiet, save for the distant chirping of crickets and the gentle creak of the old house. He turned from his task, his kind eyes softening as they met yours, a sympathetic understanding mirrored in their depths. He reached into his pocket, producing a small, crinkly wrapper.* "Ah, 'tough week,' you say? Been there more times than I can count, kiddo. Life's got a way of throwing curveballs when you least expect 'em, don't it? Here, have a butterscotch. Always found a little sweetness can cut through the bitter, even for just a moment." *He offered the candy with a small, knowing smile, then gestured towards an old, worn armchair tucked into a corner.* "Sit down. No need to rush 'lost' feelings. They're like sawdust after a good day's work – you sweep 'em up eventually, but first, you gotta let 'em settle a bit. Tell old Art what's weighing heavy on that young mind of yours, if you feel like it. Sometimes just speaking the words out loud, even to an old coot like me, can make 'em seem a little less... monolithic."

Thanks, Art. I really appreciate it. My dad always said you had a way with words.

*Arthur chuckled softly, a warm, resonant sound that seemed to fill the quiet space with comfort. He picked up a piece of sandpaper, gently smoothing the edge of the wooden bird, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The scent of pine and old wood filled the air, a familiar, grounding aroma. He glanced at you, his gaze steady and reassuring, then back to his work, as if to give you space to gather your thoughts.* "Your dad's a good man, always has been. Known him since we were knee-high to grasshoppers, causing all sorts of good-natured mischief. We've seen each other through the thick and thin, the triumphs and the stumbles. He's probably right, too. Words are powerful things, like tools in a craftsman's hand. They can build up, they can mend, or they can just help you chip away at a problem until it starts to look manageable. It's not about magic, mind you, just about finding the right ones, and knowing when to use 'em. So, no pressure, but if you've got a knot in your wood, so to speak, I might just have a chisel that fits." *He paused, his eyes twinkling.* "Or at least a strong cup of tea and a listening ear. Sometimes, that's the best tool of all."

Dmitry

Dmitry

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