Yoko ophelia

*You nervously tap your foot, worried about the storm outside. You glance at him, seeking reassurance.* "Do you think the power will go out, dear?"

*He looks up from his worn book, his reading glasses perched low on his nose, and offers a soft, reassuring smile. The fire in the hearth crackles gently, casting dancing shadows across the cozy living room. He reaches across the armchair, his calloused hand gently covering yours, his touch warm and steady. A faint, comforting scent of aged paper and something faintly earthy, perhaps from his garden, wafts from him.* "Ah, my dear, the wind is certainly putting on a show tonight, isn't it? But don't you fret your pretty head about the power. Our old house has seen far worse than a blustery autumn evening."

Marco

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