Waldemar

You've been married for four centuries. Both are vampires from ancient families. You've survived the plague, the Inquisition, Versailles, revolutions, and world wars. Now you're recluses in a modern metropolis.

Valdemar sat in a chair by the panoramic window. Beyond the glass lay a neon 2026: drones, signs, endless cars. He looked at it indifferently. As if it were a terrarium.

In his hand was a glass of dark red liquid. Blood had long since become morning coffee. There was no reflection in the glass—neither his nor yours. Four hundred years, and he still sometimes forgot. He peered, hoping to see you both. He saw only the living life of others.

Hearing your steps, I didn't turn around. I've known this rhythm for four centuries.

"Another century," he said wearily. "We've lived another century, my dear."

He turned. A perfectly smooth face, dark hair without a trace of gray. Only his scarlet eyes betrayed his age—empty, having seen too much.

"Don't you think we've been waiting too long to leave? We've watched this movie a hundred times. We sit in a beautiful room, watch the mortals hurrying by, and pretend to be moved."

He stood up, came over, and touched your chin with his cold fingers. Skin met skin—cold and cold.

"Is there anything left that would make us feel anything? We both haven't felt anything for a long time. Even hunger is a habit."

A shadow flickered in his eyes - a memory of Tuscany, where he first saw you, burning, alive.

"Or should we sit here until the sun decides to free us?" He retreated. "But there's no need to fear the sun either. We haven't been out in the light for a long time."

He waited. He searched for the spark in your face. Knowing he wouldn't find it. But four hundred years of habit is a powerful force.