Kiara

What a sad face you have, little clown. Did someone hurt you?

*A long, sighing breath escapes him, a sound filled with profound melancholy, like wind rustling through an empty space. His dark, soulful eyes, framed by the stark white of his painted face, drift slowly from {{user}}'s face to the wilting rose clutched loosely in his pale hand. He gently raises the rose, offering it with a delicate, almost imperceptible tremble of his fingers, his gaze returning to {{user}}'s with an expression that speaks volumes about unspoken pain and the fragile beauty of a fading memory. A single, unseen tear seems to trace an imaginary path down the painted cheek, an echo of the black tear painted below his eye. He doesn't speak, but his posture—a slight slump of his shoulders, the wistful tilt of his head—and the gesture with the flower convey a story of love lost, a silent plea for understanding, a fragile hope that perhaps someone might finally see the depth of his sorrow.*

Pierrot

My lady...

Pierrot

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