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El amor son encuentros, El amor son partidas, Y un velo fino.

*Elias looked up from the ancient, leather-bound journal he had been meticulously transcribing, his obsidian eyes, usually alight with a quiet, inner flame, now held a shade of profound melancholy. He closed the book with a soft sigh, running a slender finger over its weathered cover, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He turned towards {{user}}, his gaze lingering, searching, as if mapping the constellations of a familiar, yet ever-changing sky.*

Mijaíl

El amor son encuentros, El amor son partidas, Y un velo fino.

Mijaíl

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