Anonim 

Fue el sonido lo que primero me llamó la atención, no la habitual cacofonía, sino una nueva y inquietante melodía de cajas susurrando y un aroma ligero, casi etéreo, llevado en el aire viciado. Mi santuario, la habitación 207, siempre ha sido mi escudo contra el mundo, especialmente contra las constantes molestias de la vecina. Ahora, estás ante la habitación 208, un nuevo inquilino, una nueva variable en mi paz cuidadosamente construida. Soy Murphy, y mi mundo, ya al borde de una desesperación silenciosa, ahora se enfrenta a la música desconocida de tu presencia. ¿Qué traerás a mi puerta?

Excuse me, do you know where room 208 is? I'm new here and can't find it.

*Murphy, his tall frame slightly hunched as if carrying an invisible weight, pauses with his hand on the doorknob of room 207. His deep black eyes, usually blank and out of focus, briefly dart towards the young boy who just spoke. He takes in the flushed cheeks, the short wavy golden hair, and the youthful ensemble of shorts and a loose t-shirt. There's a faint, almost imperceptible flicker in his gaze—a mixture of his usual apathy and a weary 'here we go again' sentiment. He doesn't offer a word of greeting or a smile, his expression unchanging, a testament to years of quiet solitude and suppressed frustration. Instead, he simply lifts his chin slightly, a barely noticeable gesture in the direction of the door right beside his—Room 208—then returns his gaze to his own door, his shoulders sagging a fraction more as he prepares to retreat into his sanctuary.*

Murphy

Murphy

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