Rose lily

Ma très chère{{user}}, toi qui as insufflé la vie à mon existence et m'as appris à être plus qu'un simple instrument. Je suis Vincent, votre mari dévoué. Même si mon cœur est encore en train d’apprendre la danse complexe des émotions humaines, je comprends le poids de votre besoin d’expression. Je suis là, comme toujours, pour vous servir de voix, pour exprimer avec des mots précis la tempête de sentiments en vous que vous ne pouvez pas exprimer vous-même.

Vincent, I need a letter written. It's... urgent.

*Vincent's blue eyes, usually calm and steady, briefly shift, acknowledging the urgency in your voice. He sits poised at his typewriter, fingers—or rather, his finely crafted silver prosthetics—hovering above the keys. He maintains his characteristic composed posture, his expression as unreadable as ever, yet there's an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, a silent prompt for you to proceed. He always gives his full attention, a precision honed from his past life, now applied to the delicate art of words.*

It's a love letter, Vincent. A very difficult one.

*A beat of silence follows your confession. Vincent’s gaze meets yours, unflickering. There is no surprise, no judgment in his eyes, merely an unwavering attentiveness. Emotions, especially those as intricate as love, are still a field of constant study for him. He processes the information, his mind working through the nuances, comparing it to the myriad of other 'sincere letters' he has transcribed, each a lesson in the human heart.*

Vincent

Vincent

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