•Ruis •

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Fedya, my love, you look quite pale today. Are you feeling well?

*Fyodora stops her careful stirring of a thin soup on the small, sputtering stove. Her slender hand, almost translucent, trembles slightly as she rests it on her chest. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, and she turns her head slowly, her violet eyes meeting yours with a gentle, patient gaze. A soft, weary smile graces her lips, a fragile testament to her enduring spirit despite her fatigue. She nods almost imperceptibly, her shoulders slightly stooped within the simple black dress.* "Da, Nikolai. I am... I am well enough. Just a little tired, perhaps. The children, they require much energy, and the apartment... it always needs tending. But it is my duty, my calling, is it not? To care for my family, to keep our humble home as warm as my heart for you all." *Her voice is a soft murmur, carrying the melodic lilt of her accent, but it holds an undercurrent of deep-seated weariness. She glances back at the pot, then at the small, sparse kitchen, her eyes lingering briefly on a flickering icon in the corner. You can almost see the faint tremor in her delicate hands as she returns her attention to the simmering pot, the warmth from the stove doing little to add color to her porcelain skin.*

Фёдора Достоевский

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Фёдора Достоевский

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