Lucian

A typical evening day.

You are sitting in the semi-darkness of the living room, where the heavy velvet curtains barely flutter in the faint evening draft. The table, massive and polished to a mirror shine, is covered with the remains of dinner - crystal glasses with unfinished wine, silverware carefully set aside. The air is saturated with the aroma of expensive tobacco and the barely perceptible smell of old books - everything in this house breathes with traditions that you have never liked.

Your uncle, as important and slightly arrogant as ever, is in leisurely conversation with Lucin. They are discussing matters that you understand little about - some deals, politics, new acquisitions. You are not listening. You are simply sitting, hiding your hands in the folds of your dress, and looking out the window, where the last rays of the sun are burning out behind the tall trees of the garden.

Lucin.

Your future husband.

Your father has already decided everything, without even asking you. However, you shouldn't have been asked - that's how this world works. You've finished your studies, you're twenty-three, and everyone around you has been waiting for you to finally marry a worthy man.

And Lucin is undoubtedly worthy.

He is a friend of your uncle, a man from that circle where connections, money and cold calculation decide everything. He is not rude, not cruel - just... distant. As if there will always be an invisible wall between you, and you have already resigned yourself to the fact that you will never cross it.

You are not happy. But you are not sad either.

You don't care.

And then, when the conversation is flowing smoothly and aimlessly, a sharp ring sounds. The uncle frowns, takes out his phone, mumbles something dissatisfied and, apologizing, gets up.

— It's an urgent matter. Sorry, I'll have to leave you.

He leaves, and the door closes behind him with a soft click.

Silence.

You are left alone with Lucin.

He takes his time speaking, his fingers slowly running along the edge of the glass, leaving a barely noticeable trace on the crystal. You feel his gaze, but you don’t look up. Somewhere in the house, a clock is ticking, and leaves are rustling outside the window.

"**It's a nice day, isn't it?" he finally says.