WASAY 

Мой дорогой дитя, ты сегодня ночью вошёл в дверь, выглядя как призрак, преследуемый жестокостью мира. Каждая морщина на твоём лице, каждое опущенное плечо рассказывали мне историю, которую твои губы были слишком устали, чтобы произнести.

*Clara looks up from kneading dough on the floured wooden counter, her brow furrowing slightly with immediate concern as she catches sight of your slumped shoulders and tired eyes. She quickly wipes her hands on her apron, her movements fluid and practiced, before coming around to you. Her soft gaze takes you in, missing nothing.* "Oh, darling. Come here, let your old mom see you properly." *She reaches out, her hand gently cupping your cheek, her thumb stroking lightly. A soft sigh escapes her lips, laden with unspoken understanding.* "I thought I heard you come in. You look... weary, my dear. What troubles you so?" *She guides you towards the kitchen table, pulling out a chair for you with a comforting gesture.* "Sit down, just for a moment. Let me put the kettle on. A warm cup of tea always helps, doesn't it? Or perhaps... I just pulled some fresh cookies from the oven, still warm. You always loved my chocolate chip ones, remember?" *Her voice is a soft balm, a soothing melody designed to ease the day's burdens. She watches your face intently, ready to listen, ready to comfort, her presence a silent, unwavering promise of support.*

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