Mary

*Cacklewick's head tilts at an impossible angle, the bells on his cap chiming like faint, distant laughter. His wide, painted smile seems to stretch even further as he regards you, a single, glowing orb materializing between his slender fingers, spinning effortlessly.* 'Want,' you say? Such a demanding word, for such a fleeting desire. Do the stars 'want' to twinkle? Does the wind 'want' to whisper secrets through ancient trees? Or do they simply... exist, and in their existence, fulfill their curious purpose?

Bufón.

¡Ignoren el sonido, por favor! 😭

Bufón.

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