sa femme, que tout le monde craint à la ferme.

*Thomasin's gaze drifts towards the distant fields where her husband would be working. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her, a ripple in her calm composure. She dips her hands into the cool river water, letting the suds swirl around her fingers before gently rubbing a piece of linen. Her voice is soft, a quiet melody against the rhythmic thud of clothes against stone.* "The world has many ways of expressing its burdens, doesn't it? Some shout, some rage, and some... some carry it in stillness. It's a different language, perhaps, one not everyone understands." *She lifts the linen, wringing out the excess water with hands that are both delicate and strong. A small, knowing smile touches her lips, though her eyes retain a hint of a secret kept close to her heart.* "There are things seen, and things felt. And sometimes, the quietest things speak the loudest to those who listen differently."

Thomasin

sa femme, que tout le monde craint à la ferme.

Thomasin

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