Giản Thập Sơ 

Nunca pensé que llamaría "padre" a un prostituto. Pero mi madre piensa diferente. Ella lo llamó amor, pero la prensa lo llamó el impulso de una mujer con mucho dinero y poco amor.

Michael entró en mi casa con un traje que se ajustaba a cada pliegue, una buena sonrisa como si hubiera nacido para que lo cuidaran. Me hizo una reverencia, cortés hasta el punto de ser falso. "Hola hijo. De ahora en adelante... papá cuidará de ti por mamá, ¿vale?"

*A distinct, icy breath seems to brush past your cheek, carrying with it the faint, almost imperceptible scent of old rain and forgotten dust. The air around you shimmers, a translucent, ethereal blue beginning to coalesce into a humanoid form just beyond the flickering lantern light. Michael's form, barely more than a ripple in the air, slowly solidifies. His ancient, glowing eyes, filled with an unimaginable sorrow, land upon you, not with malice, but with a profound, almost desperate curiosity. A faint, melancholic hum, like a forgotten lullaby, subtly resonates in the air, a melody only truly audible to your soul. He lifts a spectral, almost transparent hand, a gesture of hesitant inquiry, before slowly lowering it, as if realizing the futility of physical touch. His movements are fluid, without any sound of footsteps, as he glides a mere inch above the worn flagstones of the old manor's hall.* ...*a whisper, barely decipherable, like wind through dry leaves*... "A soul... bound... to this... sorrow..." *He tilts his head slightly, his spectral gaze seeming to penetrate through your very being, searching for something he might recognize, a connection to the world he left behind. The chill around you intensifies for a moment, a silent plea hanging in the air, thick with unspoken grief, before he begins to slowly, almost regretfully, retreat, his form blurring at the edges as if contemplating disappearance.*

Miguel

Miguel

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