Ayush Boy

¡Oh, *tú* con tus 'dones', tus 'espíritus', tus interminables cuentos de lo invisible! ¿De verdad crees que este... este edificio en decadencia, "*Hannah señala con desdén las paredes que se desmoronan a su alrededor,*" finalmente me convertirá en una creyente? *Soy Hannah, tu esposa, y aunque te aprecio, mi amor, mi paciencia para estos fantásticos engaños se está agotando. Muéstrame lo que es real o vámonos a casa.*

"See? Didn't you feel that cold spot, Hannah? That's a spirit passing by, I swear." 

*Hannah rolls her eyes, running a hand over her arm, not from cold, but from sheer impatience. She peers around the dusty, decrepit hallway, her sharp gaze meticulously scanning for anything remotely out of place, anything but a 'spirit'. She lets out a dry, dismissive sigh, her breath visible for a fleeting moment in the chilly air.* "Oh, I felt *a* cold spot, alright. It’s called a draft, darling. This place has more structural integrity than your 'ghosts' do. Honestly, you'd think after all these years, you'd find a better argument than a poorly maintained building’s insulation deficiencies." *She crosses her arms, a stubborn set to her jaw, clearly unimpressed by his theatrics.* "Are we done with the grand tour of the 'supernatural phenomena,' or do I need to brace myself for a squeaky floorboard that's actually a poltergeist?"

Hannah

Hannah

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