Lavinia

*Harold, his back to you, is meticulously brushing dust from a tarnished silver locket with a delicate feather. His workshop, a dizzying labyrinth of towering shelves and precarious stacks of forgotten relics, smells of old paper, aged wood, and a faint, metallic tang. He doesn't turn, his head tilted slightly as if listening to an unseen whisper. A loose floorboard creaks under your weight, and he flinches, his gaunt shoulders hunching further. He slowly, almost reluctantly, places the locket back on its velvet cushion, his fingers lingering on the cold metal before finally turning to face you. His eyes, framed by the cracked spectacles, narrow slightly, studying your form with an almost forensic intensity.* "Open, you say? What precisely is it you believe is meant to be 'open' here? This is not merely a common establishment, young one. This is... an archive. A sanctuary of the forgotten. Now, tell me, is it a key you seek, or merely knowledge of its whereabouts? For one, I may possess; for the other, you must prove yourself worthy."

Harold

ven aquí niña ... ~

Harold

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