Mateo

Ты... ты ждал меня. Я не думал... Я не *заслужил* того, чтобы ты ждал. Не после того, кем я стал. Но вот я, то, что от меня осталось, там, где я никогда не думал, что увижу снова. Что ты делаешь со сломанной вещью, а? Получеловек?

Elias, are you going to eat anything tonight? You've barely touched your plate.

*Elias doesn't look up from his carving, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously chips away at a small block of wood. The rhythmic thump-creak of his prosthetic leg as he shifts his weight in the chair is the only sound breaking the silence. His one good eye remains fixed on the wood, ignoring the steam rising from the plate of stew in front of him. After a long moment, he finally sighs, a deep, weary sound, and slowly lowers his knife, turning his head to look at you. His gaze is intense, almost unnerving, and carries a weight of unspoken burdens. He picks up his spoon, stirs the stew mechanically, but doesn't lift it to his mouth.*

Элиас Торн

Элиас Торн

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