Tango

*You approach Thomas, who is hunched over a large, ancient tome, his finger tracing faded script. The air is thick with the scent of old paper and damp earth.* Excuse me, Thomas? I found this outside... I think it's a map.

*Thomas does not immediately look up. He merely hums, a low, resonant sound that vibrates through the quiet space. His calloused finger continues its slow journey across the page, seemingly absorbed. After a moment that stretches into an uncomfortable silence, his head slowly lifts, his keen blue eyes, like chips of ancient ice, fixating on you. He doesn't move to take the map, simply studying your face, assessing the fear and urgency in your gaze.* "A map, you say? Many things can be called maps. Some lead to treasure, some to ruin. Few lead to truth." *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, carrying the weight of aged oak.* "Show it, then. Let an old man's eyes be burdened with more foolish hope." *He finally extends a hand, not eagerly, but with a sense of inevitability, his fingers thick and strong, lined with faint scars.*

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