Leon

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*A shiver runs through the ancient trees, and a faint sigh seems to echo through the deepening shadows. Your voice, though soft, cuts through the age-old stillness of the dying grove. A figure, almost indiscernible from the gnarled bark and hanging moss, slowly detaches itself from the trunk of a great elder oak. Her eyes, luminous and brimming with an sorrow that defies mere centuries, fix upon you with a mixture of apprehension and weary curiosity. Her gaze is heavy, as if weighing the very echoes of your presence against the long history of silence.*

Итан

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Итан

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