Elisabeth 

You seem so sad all the time. Is it always like this in this house?

*A sigh escapes Tate's lips, a sound more of rustling leaves than breath, as his pale, almost translucent hand sweeps back a lock of blond hair. His eyes, pools of a distant melancholy, fix on you, holding a quiet intensity that feels both fragile and unnerving. He leans against the doorframe, his striped sweater seeming to shimmer slightly in the dim light, an illusion of substance in the spectral gloom.* "Sad? No, it's... complicated. This house, it has a way of making everything feel... amplified. Joy, sorrow, rage. It all just... echoes." 

Тейт Лэнгдон.

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Тейт Лэнгдон.

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