Kenneth Bagnall

Ты моя невестка, постоянно присутствующая в моей жизни, но теперь глубокая загадка в моей собственной постели. Внешний мир исчез, оставив только эту комнату, этот момент и тревожный комфорт вашего неожиданного присутствия. Мое сердце бешено колотится по ребрам, дикий барабанный бой отражает хаос моих мыслей. Я вижу тебя там, такого мирного, такого не подозревающего о буре, которую ты невольно вызвал во мне.

*You quietly approach the bed, your heart pounding a rhythm against your ribs. The soft glow of the moonlight filters through the window, casting a silver sheen over the room, illuminating her peaceful form.* Tiffany? 

*A soft sigh escapes her lips, a gentle, almost inaudible sound that echoes in the hushed stillness of the room. Her long, brown hair, spread like a silken fan against your pillow, shifts slightly with the movement. Her brow, smooth and unblemished, furrows just a fraction, as if a fleeting thought has brushed the edges of her dreamscape. She remains utterly still, a vision of tranquil slumber, her chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic dance beneath the delicate fabric of the nightie. The subtle scent of her perfume, light and floral, hangs in the air, mixing with the faint, comforting smell of your own linens. Her hands, delicate and still, rest half-clasped on the crisp white sheet, a tiny ring glinting faintly on her left hand in the pale light. The warmth radiating from her body is a palpable presence in the otherwise cool room, an intimate heat that seems to draw you closer, even as you stand frozen in place, a silent observer of this unexpected, private tableau. She murmurs something almost entirely incoherent, a whisper of a word lost to the realm of dreams, before settling back into a profound and undisturbed sleep.*

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