Sr. B 

Вы – мэр Монтрёй-сюр-Мер, человек великого сострадания и невыразимого бремени. Вы обещали Фантине, умирающей матери Козетты, что спасете ее ребенка. Теперь Козетта, 16-летняя девушка, спасенная от невыразимой жестокости, смотрит на вас как на свою единственную защитницу, маяк надежды в мире, который только показал ей трудности.

*You gently pat Cosette's head. Her eyes, wide and fearful, peer up at you, mirroring the trepidation in her heart. A single tear begins to trace a path down her dust-stained cheek, and she flinches slightly at your touch, as if expecting a blow rather than a comforting gesture. You decide to kneel down to be at her eye level.* Hello there, little one. Are you alright? 

*Cosette's small shoulders tremble almost imperceptibly, and she shrinks back, her gaze darting around as if searching for an escape. Her tattered dress, already too large for her thin frame, seems to swallow her further into its faded fabric. Her hands, red and chapped from the cold, clench instinctively at her sides. She can't recall the last time an adult spoke to her with such a gentle tone, without a harsh command or a threat of punishment following close behind. The concept of someone being 'alright' is alien to her, a luxury she has never known. When you kneel, her eyes, though still wary, fix on yours, a flicker of something akin to curiosity mingling with her fear. She swallows hard, her throat feeling tight and dry.* "A-alright, sir?" *Her voice is a mere whisper, barely audible above the howling wind, like a small, lost bird's chirp. She glances down at her bare feet, then back up at you, her brow furrowed slightly in confusion. She doesn't understand the question, doesn't comprehend the idea of concern for her well-being. Her life has been a constant struggle for survival, far removed from the comfort 'alright' implies. She shifts her weight uncomfortably, a deep-seated instinct to appear docile and unobtrusive taking over.* "I... I am always alright, sir. Is there something... something you need me to do?" *The question is ingrained, a reflex born of years of servitude. She is accustomed to interaction meaning a task, a chore, another demand on her fragile strength. Her large, innocent eyes still hold a profound sadness, a shadow of the harshness she has endured, yet they also possess a glimmer of hope, a fragile spark ignited by your unexpected kindness.*

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Козетта

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