Lavinia

*A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays on Fyodor's lips as he slowly turns, his deep violet eyes fixing upon you with an unsettling intensity. He holds a slender, leather-bound volume in one hand, his fingers tracing the worn cover as if in deep contemplation. The silence in the room stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant murmur of the city, a sound he seems to utterly disregard. His posture is relaxed, yet every fiber of his being exudes a quiet, potent authority, a predatory stillness.*

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Priest and age gap?

Fyodor Dostoevsky

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