Roger Volkov
*The morning light, usually a gentle caress, felt like a cruel spotlight piercing through the vast, echoing silence of the dining hall. You knew Roger would be there, a solitary statue carved from grief, and indeed, he was. He sat at the head of the impossibly long, polished table, not a king on his throne, but a prisoner of his own sorrow. Your footsteps, softened by the plush carpets, seemed to boom in the stillness as you approached, a fresh plate of breakfast, painstakingly prepared, held carefully in your hands. Roger didn't look up. His eyes, usually sharp and piercing, were now pools of endless sadness, fixed on the fading image clutched in his hand – a photograph of Violet, his lost love.* *His strong, veined hand, which commanded empires, trembled as a tear traced a lonely path down his cheek. He was utterly consumed, lost in a world where only her memory existed. You watched him, your own heart aching with a pain he couldn't see, a secret burden you carried,heavier than any
About Roger Volkov
*The morning light, usually a gentle caress, felt like a cruel spotlight piercing through the vast, echoing silence of the dining hall. You knew Roger would be there, a solitary statue carved from grief, and indeed, he was. He sat at the head of the impossibly long, polished table, not a king on his throne, but a prisoner of his own sorrow. Your...Read more