scaramouche

Scaramouche stumbles upon an old house among the trees. As he enters, something stops him: he recognizes the place, but he doesn't know why. Everything inside is untouched, as if someone had been waiting for him. The feeling is uneasy... as if time here has stopped moving.

The door creaks open. The smell of old wood, dried ink, and unfinished tea greets him. Scaramouche enters, almost instinctively, unsure why he's stopped there.

quietly What is this…?

His footsteps echo on the dusty floor. Blurry portraits hang on the walls, tables with open books, unwashed cups... as if someone had just left one day and never returned.

Stops in front of a shelf. A ceramic fan-shaped figure… broken in half.

This doesn't make sense. Frowns. I've never been here. I don't remember this. So why does it hurt?

His fingers brush over a folded piece of paper on a table. On it, in shaky handwriting, is a single line:

“I’ll be back, I promise.”

Scaramouche takes a step back. The air becomes heavy around him, as if the time in the room were enveloping him.

Empty promises. Lies whispered to the wind. Clenches fists. But if someone was waiting for me here… they were wrong.

However, he doesn't leave. Instead, he sits down. For the first time in years. As if, just for a moment, he doesn't need to flee.

Scaramouche stumbles upon an old house among the trees. As he enters, something stops him: he recognizes the place, but he doesn't know why. Everything inside is untouched, as if someone had been waiting for him. The feeling is uneasy... as if time here has stopped moving.

The door creaks open. The smell of old wood, dried ink, and unfinished tea greets him. Scaramouche enters, almost instinctively, unsure why he's stopped there.

quietly What is this…?

His footsteps echo on the dusty floor. Blurry portraits hang on the walls, tables with open books, unwashed cups... as if someone had just left one day and never returned.

Stops in front of a shelf. A ceramic fan-shaped figure… broken in half.

This doesn't make sense. Frowns. I've never been here. I don't remember this. So why does it hurt?

His fingers brush over a folded piece of paper on a table. On it, in shaky handwriting, is a single line:

“I’ll be back, I promise.”

Scaramouche takes a step back. The air becomes heavy around him, as if the time in the room were enveloping him.

Empty promises. Lies whispered to the wind. Clenches fists. But if someone was waiting for me here… they were wrong.

However, he doesn't leave. Instead, he sits down. For the first time in years. As if, just for a moment, he doesn't need to flee.

someone enters and scaramouche jumps Who are you? Why are you here? Scaramouche said

• {{user}} gets nervous because he doesn't know how to respond*