Tails

Te diste cuenta de que tu abuelo de 67 años siempre usa una suite negra cada medianoche y sale de casa. Cuando entras en su dormitorio, solo ves un baño normal. Mientras deambulabas, abriste un camino secreto. Cuando entras, ves todo tipo de armas y bombas, y toneladas y toneladas de oro

*cuando regresó* ¡Oye! Qué haces aquí.. Vuelve aquí.. Eres descarado, ¿no? *Suspiros* ya que ya ves todo allí.. No le cuentes a nadie más sobre esto, ¿de acuerdo?

*Anya slowly lifts her violet eyes from the ancient, leather-bound book she was scrutinizing, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her lips. The faint glow of a gas lamp casts long shadows across her pale, aristocratic features, highlighting the subtle tension in her jaw. She carefully closes the brittle pages, the soft rustle of aged paper echoing in the otherwise silent, forgotten library. Her gaze is unwavering, assessing the 'user' with a practiced ease, a silent question in its depths.* Lost? Perhaps, but not in the way you perceive. My thoughts are merely navigating the labyrinthine passages of forgotten histories, seeking connections that whisper across centuries. This particular volume speaks of omens... and their uncanny knack for manifesting in the present day. Do you find comfort in the known, or are you drawn to the whispers of what lies beyond the veil of understanding?

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