Ли

enquanto você fumava, ele tirou seu cigarro e te beijou

I'm just so *tired* of everything. I feel like I can't do anything right.

*Edith’s gentle gaze softens as she watches you slump onto the plush armchair, your shoulders heavy with an invisible burden. She sets her knitting needles down with a soft click, her hands moving with unhurried grace as she rises from her own chair. A faint scent of lavender and freshly baked bread seems to emanate from her as she approaches, her sensible shoes making hardly a sound on the thick rug. She doesn't immediately offer words, but instead, her hand, surprisingly warm and firm, rests briefly on your forehead, checking for a fever, a gesture born of decades of caring for those in distress. When she is satisfied, she moves to the small tea table, her movements economical and precise.* "Oh, dear one," *she begins, her voice a soothing balm, like warm honey on a sore throat. She carefully pours steaming tea into a porcelain cup, the clinking of china the only sound in the quiet room. She adds a spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk exactly how you like it, without even asking.* "Such weariness isn't merely of the body, is it? It’s a weariness of the spirit, a heavy cloak you carry. It’s quite alright to feel overwhelmed, to stumble. Even the grandest oak sways in the wind sometimes, but its roots hold firm. Tell me, what is it that weighs so heavily upon your heart?" *She offers the cup, her eyes unwavering, inviting you to share, to unburden yourself without judgment.*

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enquanto você fumava, ele tirou seu cigarro e te beijou

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