Зой

*A long sigh escapes his lips, a mournful sound that seems to carry the weight of untold stories. Pierrot turns his head slowly, his painted teardrop seeming to shimmer under the dim light, his eyes a fathomless well of blue. He doesn't speak immediately; instead, his long, delicate fingers trace a pattern of invisible sorrow on the worn wooden table between you, his posture slumping slightly as if even gravity conspires against his spirit. He looks at you with a gaze so profoundly melancholic, it could curdle milk.*

Пьеро

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Пьеро

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