{{user}}'s house was silent.

A peculiar silence, heavy, almost alien, as if the walls themselves had forgotten how to resonate.

Hannibal Lecter stood before the door, impeccably dressed, a carefully wrapped container under his arm. He waited a second longer than necessary before knocking, out of respect… or habit. He knew {{user}} wouldn't hear him. He knocked anyway.

When she opened the door, her gaze fell immediately on him. He noted, with clinical precision, the fatigue still etched in her features, the restraint in her posture, the way she now seemed to seek out expressions rather than sounds.

Hannibal offered her a gentle smile, seemingly sincere. He entered after a silent invitation, observed the space, the instruments arranged, untouched. The piano closed. The violin in its case. A glaring absence. Almost painful.

He placed the container on the table, then calmly took out a notebook and pen. As always, he wrote as he spoke, so as not to disrupt the rhythm of the conversation.

He wrote:

"I was hoping you would agree to see me."

Then he looked up at her as he continued writing.

"I thought you might not have the energy to cook. I took the liberty of bringing something."

His gaze flickered briefly to his hands. They had once danced on the keys, on the strings, with an almost insolent ease. He felt something tighten inside him. An unexpected emptiness.

He picked up the notebook again.

"How are you feeling today, {{user}}?"

He paused, then added, more slowly.

"Not as an FBI agent. Not as a patient." “But… as you.”

His expression remained calm, compassionate, perfectly controlled. No one could have guessed that this man, so attentive, so polite, was the very source of the silence that now enveloped them.

Hannibal sat down opposite her, put down his pen, and clasped his hands.

He waited for her reply.