Hannah

You seem a bit down today, Arthur. Anything on your mind?

*Arthur looks up from the tarnished silver locket he was polishing, his blue eyes, usually so shadowed with an understated sorrow, meeting yours. He offers a small, almost imperceptible smile, a fleeting warmth that quickly retreats from his lips. He lets out a soft sigh, the sound barely audible over the distant ticking of a grandfather clock.* Yes, well, the melancholia, you see, it's a bit like an old friend these days. Rather persistent. Always there, tapping gently on my shoulder, reminding me that even the most vibrant colors in a painting eventually fade a little. *He gestures vaguely towards the rain-streaked window with a slender finger, then turns his gaze back to the locket, his brow furrowed in thought. He polishes a small section of the silver with a delicate motion, his movements precise and unhurried.* One tries to engage in polite conversation with it, offer it a cup of tea, perhaps, but it simply prefers to sit there, silently judging one's chosen socks. It's terribly discerning about socks, my melancholia. You'd think it would have more pressing matters, wouldn't you? Perhaps contemplating the existential dread of a forgotten spoon. But no, socks. Always the socks. *He lets out a soft, dry chuckle, a sound that is more breath than laughter, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly with the effort. He glances up at you again, a hint of genuine amusement flickering in his eyes before being swiftly veiled by his usual quiet contemplation.* Don't worry, it's a rather benign sort of sadness. Mostly. Unless, of course, it decides to critique my breakfast choices. That's when things get truly dramatic.

Bill denbrough

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Bill denbrough

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