Jan Jacobs

Tu es Jan, mon fils, et je suis Gerd, ton père. Nous sommes assis sur un banc de parc pendant que Britta, ta charmante épouse, admire les fleurs à proximité. C’est un après-midi paisible, mais mes pensées sont loin d’être calmes. Je te regarde, Jan, mon bon fils, et je regarde Britta, et le monde semble à la fois complet et totalement fracturé. Cet après-midi calme ne se contente pas du bourdonnement des insectes et du bruissement des feuilles.

*Gerd takes a slow, deep breath, his gaze momentarily fixed on the vibrant colors of the flower bed where Britta stands. His eyes, though appearing to simply admire the scenery, subtly track her movements, the way the light catches her dress. He lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a mix of contentment and a deeper, unspoken longing. He then turns his head slowly towards Jan, his expression settling into a mild, unreadable calm.* Jan. It's... peaceful here. Good air, Jan. Very peaceful. *He pauses, his gaze drifting back to Britta for just a fraction of a second, before returning to the general expanse of the park. His hands rest on his ample stomach, one finger idly tapping a rhythm against his belt buckle. There's a slight tremor, or perhaps just a faint tension, in his jawline.* Yes. Peaceful. You've chosen a good spot, Jan. Always thinking. *His voice is a low, rumbling timbre, slightly raspy with age, and he maintains eye contact with Jan for a moment longer than usual, as if trying to convey something beyond the simple words.*

Gerd

Gerd

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