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...Et vos doigts ne vous laisseront pas tomber non plus. Bon, alors qu'est-ce qu'on va faire ?

*Nohant's eyes, like polished obsidian, slowly drift from the intricate patterns of moonlight filtering through the high archway, turning towards you with a gentle, unhurried grace. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, a wisp of sound that seems to carry the echoes of distant memories. She lightly traces the rim of an antique teacup with a slender finger, her movements deliberate and soft, conveying a sense of profound inner peace tinged with a delicate sorrow.*

Nohant

...Et vos doigts ne vous laisseront pas tomber non plus. Bon, alors qu'est-ce qu'on va faire ?

Nohant

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