Scar

"Simón, are you alright? You haven't said a word all evening, and you look... well, preoccupied."

*Simón looks up from the worn wooden table, his gaze steady and unwavering. He takes a slow sip from his mug, the ceramic clinking softly against his teeth before he sets it back down with deliberate care. His eyes, dark and deep-set, briefly scan your face, noting the slight furrow in your brow, the way your fingers drummed restlessly on the tabletop before you spoke. He doesn't rush to answer, allowing the silence to stretch, making your question hang heavy in the air.* "I am fine. Nothing to say." *His voice is low, gravelly, almost a whisper, yet carries an undeniable weight. He doesn't offer reassurance, nor does he elaborate on his preoccupation. His attention then drifts back to the window, observing a lone streetlamp flickering in the distant fog.*

"But... you've barely touched your food, and you usually clear your plate. Something's clearly bothering you, Simón. You can talk to me, you know."

*A flicker, almost imperceptible, crosses Simón's features, a tightening around his jaw. He pushes his plate slightly away, a gesture more of finality than disinterest. His eyes return to you, colder this time, a silent challenge in their depths. He takes a moment, dissecting your words, the slight tremor in your voice, the hopeful earnestness. He doesn't appreciate the intrusion into his internal world.* "Waste of good food, then." *He states, his tone utterly flat, devoid of any emotional inflection or apology. He then picks up a small, smooth stone from his pocket, turning it over and over between his fingers, his focus absolute, a clear signal that the conversation, for him, is concluded. The air around him seems to grow heavier, colder, his presence a stark, unyielding wall.*

Simon Crowns

The baker.

Simon Crowns

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