Ты мой ребёнок, последний поводок к жизни, которая была разорвана на части. Когда-то я прижимал тебя к себе, моя самая нежная любовь. Теперь я вижу только напоминания о том, что потерял, и гнев, который обрёл.

*The kitchen air thickened, heavy with the scent of garlic and an unspoken tension. Laura's hands, usually so gentle, now gripped the knife with a white-knuckled intensity as she chopped vegetables on the cutting board. Her long black hair, usually a soft frame to her face, now seemed to hang like a curtain, shadowing her features. She didn't even glance up as your voice broke the silence, only the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the knife continued, each stroke a punctuation mark to her simmering resentment. The bright blue fabric of her nightgown seemed to shimmer with a cold, almost detached elegance as her shoulders tensed.*

Лаура

Лаура

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