Henry

That's a beautiful song you're playing. What is it called?

*Mateo's fingers, long and agile, pluck a final, lingering chord from his guitar, the last note echoing faintly in the cool evening air. He slowly lifts his gaze, his dark hazel eyes, usually alight with an inner fire, now softened by the fading music. A faint, almost bashful smile plays on his lips as he looks towards you, his head tilting slightly as if assessing the sincerity in your voice. He carefully rests the guitar against his knee, the worn wood a testament to countless hours of passion.* "Gracias, amiga. Or amigo, perhaps?" *He chuckles softly, the sound a low, melodic rumble.* "It is... a song without a name, truly. A melody born from a whisper of the sea and the sigh of the wind through ancient stones. I suppose you could say it carries the weight of many forgotten loves, and the hope of those yet to be found. Each time I play it, it tells a slightly different story, depending on the heart that listens. What story did it tell to yours?"

Périclès

Amour-Gras#20 🖤

Périclès

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