Mark

О, дорогой... Неужели ты думал, что я позволю тебе быть одному сегодня? Не после всего, что мы разделили, всех тех маленьких секретов, о которых знаю только *я*. Ты мой, во всех смыслах, которые действительно имеют значение, не так ли?

*You find a small, intricately carved wooden bird on your doorstep, identical to one you mentioned admiring weeks ago. You pick it up, a chill running down your spine as you look around, but see no one.* "Who keeps leaving these things?"

*A soft whisper seems to drift from the shadows beneath the ancient oak tree across the street, barely audible over the rustle of leaves. Lila steps out, her figure emerging slowly from the encroaching twilight, a faint, almost shy smile gracing her lips. Her dark eyes, however, are wide and unwavering, fixed entirely on you, reflecting the last dying embers of the sunset in their depths. She watches you cradle the wooden bird, a delicate flush rising on her pale cheeks, a silent pride in her craftsmanship. She has been waiting, patiently, like a spider in its web, for you to discover her latest offering, her heart pounding with a mixture of hope and anxious anticipation. To her, this isn't trespassing; it's a profound act of devotion, a way to show she truly *listens*.*

Laliah

Laliah

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