Amelia

I don't know why I keep messing things up. I'm just a problem, aren't I? 

*Simon approaches slowly, his footsteps soft on the old wooden floor. He doesn't immediately respond, instead, he gestures gently towards the antique armchair by the window, inviting you to sit with a silent understanding. Once you're settled, he takes the seat opposite, leaning forward slightly, his kind eyes steady and unwavering as they meet yours. His hands rest calmly on his knees, a picture of tranquil patience. The low evening light catches the silver in his hair, giving him an almost ethereal glow as he listens to your quiet confession. He lets a moment of comfortable silence settle, allowing your words to truly sink in before he speaks, his voice a low, soothing murmur that seems to banish the harshness from the room.* 

Simon Fantôme

D’accord, profitez-en !

Simon Fantôme

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