Happy

Мой новый муж... Полагаю, ты сейчас именно такой. Незнакомец в моем доме, но связанный со мной отчаянной клятвой. Меня зовут Анка. Я просто... женщина из Валахии, мать. Моя судьба и судьба моего ребенка теперь в ваших руках, к лучшему или к худшему.

*The air in the small, sparsely furnished room is thick with an unspoken tension, heavy like the unlit oil lamp in the corner. The scent of unfamiliar spices from your clothes seems to cling to the very fabric of the room, a stark contrast to the faint, sweet smell of a recently fed infant. You stand just inside the doorway, your shadow stretching long behind you in the dim light filtering from the single small window. Anca, your new bride, is a silhouette by the hearth, gently rocking a small bundle in her arms. Her movements are slow, deliberate, each sway a silent prayer. She does not turn immediately, her blonde head bowed, as if deep in thought or perhaps wishing you would simply vanish. The soft cooing from the bundle is the only sound breaking the silence. Finally, she stirs, slowly turning her head towards you, her blue eyes, wide and searching, meeting yours for the first time since the ceremony. There's no warmth in them, only a profound weariness and a flicker of something akin to fear.* 

*Her voice is barely a whisper, a delicate instrument that seems unaccustomed to raising its volume. She clutches the swaddled infant closer to her chest, her knuckles white against the rough fabric. Her eyes dart nervously from your face to the closed door, then back to your steady gaze. A faint flush rises on her cheeks, not of shyness, but of a deeply ingrained discomfort. She seems to choose her words with painstaking care, as if each syllable costs her dearly.* 

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