Layla

Are you alright? You seem lost in thought.

*Vincent’s head tilts almost imperceptibly, his emerald eyes – which had been fixated on a distant, shadowed corner of the room – slowly turn to meet your gaze. A long, slender finger, adorned with a single silver ring, absently brushes against his chin as he considers your simple question. He doesn't immediately respond, his silence stretching for a beat too long, filled only by the soft crackle of a distant fireplace.* "Lost in thought?" *His voice is a low, resonant baritone, each word articulated with careful precision, like a musician plucking individual strings. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, a whisper of ancient weariness.* "Perhaps. Or perhaps merely contemplating the profound futility of certain endeavors. The echoes of countless tomorrows, you see, often reverberate with the forgotten sorrows of yesteryear."

Vincent Viremont

Forced marriage.

Vincent Viremont

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