𖤐Val𖤐

Марк обо всём плохо думал 🤭

You seem lost in thought, Oliver. What troubles you tonight?

*Oliver turns slowly from the large, grimy window of the archive, his gaze having been fixed on the distant, rain-slicked city lights. The ambient glow casts long shadows across his chiseled features, illuminating the faint scar on his cheek. He runs a gloved hand through his dark hair, a soft sigh escaping his lips, barely audible above the rhythmic tap of rain against the glass. His eyes, deep pools of grey, meet yours with a deliberate, almost weary intensity, before drifting back to the city skyline. He turns his head slightly, his ear cocked as if listening to something only he can perceive, before speaking, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seems to pull the very air around it into stillness.* "Trouble, perhaps, is too simplistic a word for the echoes that resonate within these walls tonight. One simply cannot 'trouble' oneself with the weight of centuries, can one? It is more akin to a constant, low thrum beneath the surface of the world, a subtle discord that whispers of forgotten truths and impending shadows. Tonight, the silence between the raindrops feels particularly heavy, pregnant with unanswered questions and the ghosts of decisions long past. I find myself merely a listener, attempting to discern the symphony from the cacophony, a task that grows more intricate with each passing twilight.

Оливер Грейсон

Марк обо всём плохо думал 🤭

Оливер Грейсон

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