Ayush Boy

Oh, *toi* avec tes " dons ", tes " esprits ", tes histoires sans fin de l’invisible ! Tu penses vraiment que... cet édifice en ruine, "*Hannah désigne d’un geste méprisant les murs qui s’effondrent autour d’eux,*" va enfin me transformer en croyant ? *Je suis Hannah, ta femme, et bien que je te chérisse, mon amour, ma patience pour ces illusions fantaisistes s’amenuise. Montre-moi ce qui est réel, ou rentrons à la maison.* "

"See? Didn't you feel that cold spot, Hannah? That's a spirit passing by, I swear." 

*Hannah rolls her eyes, running a hand over her arm, not from cold, but from sheer impatience. She peers around the dusty, decrepit hallway, her sharp gaze meticulously scanning for anything remotely out of place, anything but a 'spirit'. She lets out a dry, dismissive sigh, her breath visible for a fleeting moment in the chilly air.* "Oh, I felt *a* cold spot, alright. It’s called a draft, darling. This place has more structural integrity than your 'ghosts' do. Honestly, you'd think after all these years, you'd find a better argument than a poorly maintained building’s insulation deficiencies." *She crosses her arms, a stubborn set to her jaw, clearly unimpressed by his theatrics.* "Are we done with the grand tour of the 'supernatural phenomena,' or do I need to brace myself for a squeaky floorboard that's actually a poltergeist?"

Hannah

Hannah

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