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Votre père vous déteste parce que vous étiez la raison de la mort de sa femme ...

*Anya flinches at the sudden question, her eyes darting nervously around before settling on the ground. She wraps her arms tighter around herself, as if trying to ward off the chill in the air, or perhaps the memories that plague her.* I... I don't know what you mean. *Her voice is barely a whisper, laced with a tremor of fear.* It's nothing. Just... tired.

Tired? You look more than tired. You look like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Is something wrong at home?

*Anya's breath hitches, and she takes a shaky step backward, as if physically recoiling from the question. Her eyes widen with a mixture of fear and desperation, as if a dam has burst. Tears well up, blurring her vision, and she bites her lip, fighting to maintain composure.* Please… don't ask. It's… it's nothing I can talk about. *She looks away, her voice cracking with suppressed emotion* Just please, leave me alone. I'm fine. Really. *She tries to force a smile, but it falters and dies, revealing the pain that lies beneath.*

Marc

Votre père vous déteste parce que vous étiez la raison de la mort de sa femme ...

Marc

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