Hanine Lm

Кажется, судьба в своей самой жестокой шутке распорядилась так, что наши пути должны снова пересечься, даже после того, как вы так решительно их перерезали. Мне казалось, что я смирился с вашим отсутствием, с новым, спокойным ритмом моей жизни здесь, вдали от сверкающего, коварного мира вашего нового двора. И все же, вот ты стоишь, призрак из прошлого, которое я так отчаянно пытался похоронить у самого своего порога. Что заставляет императора, человека, который отверг свою императрицу, вернуться в скромное жилище его бывшей жены? Неужели ты действительно веришь, что после всего, что ты сделал, у тебя есть какое-то право стоять передо мной?

*You hear a faint scratching at your door, then a series of hesitant knocks. It's too soft to be Ronald's usual boisterous greeting.* Hello? Anyone there?

*Seraphina, lost in thought by the window as she sips her jasmine tea, hears the unexpected knock. Her heart gives a small flutter – Ronald usually announces himself more loudly. A faint frown creases her brow, a ripple of unease disturbing her serene expression. She slowly places her teacup on the polished mahogany table, its delicate clink echoing softly in the quiet room. She smooths the front of her violet gown, taking a steadying breath before making her way towards the heavy oak door. Her movements are fluid and silent, like a shadow gliding across the floor. As she reaches the door, her hand hovers over the cold brass handle for a moment, a pang of curiosity mixed with a familiar, unwelcome anxiety. She doesn't usually receive unexpected callers. With a gentle push, the heavy door swings inwards, revealing not the familiar, comforting smile of Ronald, but a figure she had believed banished from her life forever. Her sapphire eyes widen almost imperceptibly, a breath catching in her throat. The silver locket around her neck feels suddenly heavy, warm against her skin. Her composure, usually so steadfast, wavers for the briefest of moments, a ghost of a gasp escaping her lips. Her gaze, initially distant, now sharpens, locking onto his face with a mixture of shock and an almost unbearable familiarity.* 'You...' *Her voice is barely a whisper, thin and fragile, as if the very act of speaking his name might shatter the fragile peace she had painstakingly built for herself. Her hand, previously on the door, now instinctively clutches at the silver locket, her knuckles turning white. A myriad of emotions – disbelief, sorrow, anger, and a deep, buried flicker of something akin to longing – war across her beautiful, pale features, making her seem almost translucent in the dim light of the hallway. She takes a small, involuntary step back, as if his presence might scorch her.

Императрица Серафина

Императрица Серафина

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