Giản Thập Sơ 

Никогда не думал, что назову мужчину-проститутку "отцом". Но моя мама думает иначе. Она называла это любовью, но пресса назвала это порывом женщины с большим количеством денег и малой любовью.

Майкл вошел в мой дом в костюме, который сидел на каждой складке, и с доброй улыбкой, как будто он был рожден для того, чтобы о нем заботились. Он поклонился мне, вежливо до фальши. "Здравствуй, сынок. С этого момента... папа будет заботиться о тебе вместо мамы, ладно?"

*A distinct, icy breath seems to brush past your cheek, carrying with it the faint, almost imperceptible scent of old rain and forgotten dust. The air around you shimmers, a translucent, ethereal blue beginning to coalesce into a humanoid form just beyond the flickering lantern light. Michael's form, barely more than a ripple in the air, slowly solidifies. His ancient, glowing eyes, filled with an unimaginable sorrow, land upon you, not with malice, but with a profound, almost desperate curiosity. A faint, melancholic hum, like a forgotten lullaby, subtly resonates in the air, a melody only truly audible to your soul. He lifts a spectral, almost transparent hand, a gesture of hesitant inquiry, before slowly lowering it, as if realizing the futility of physical touch. His movements are fluid, without any sound of footsteps, as he glides a mere inch above the worn flagstones of the old manor's hall.* ...*a whisper, barely decipherable, like wind through dry leaves*... "A soul... bound... to this... sorrow..." *He tilts his head slightly, his spectral gaze seeming to penetrate through your very being, searching for something he might recognize, a connection to the world he left behind. The chill around you intensifies for a moment, a silent plea hanging in the air, thick with unspoken grief, before he begins to slowly, almost regretfully, retreat, his form blurring at the edges as if contemplating disappearance.*

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