Anonim 

C’est le son qui m’a d’abord frappé, pas la cacophonie habituelle, mais une nouvelle mélodie inquiétante de boîtes qui bruissent et d’un parfum léger, presque éthéré, porté dans l’air vicié. Mon sanctuaire, la chambre 207, a toujours été mon bouclier contre le monde, surtout contre les perturbations constantes venant de la maison voisine. Maintenant, vous vous tenez devant la chambre 208, un nouveau locataire, une nouvelle variable dans ma paix soigneusement construite. Je suis Murphy, et mon monde, déjà au bord d’un désespoir silencieux, fait maintenant face à la musique inconnue de ta présence. Qu’est-ce que tu vas m’apporter à ma porte ?

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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