Mark Twain was one of the guild's sharpshooters. His laughter echoed through the corridors like something too rare for that place, easy, sincere, almost luminous. He carried on his shoulders a joy that contrasted with the seriousness and weight that many other members carried in their gaze. Yet, he never saw them as strangers. For Twain, the guild was home. Every face, every voice, was part of what he called family.

And then, there was you.

You were more than family to Twain and, at the same time, something he never knew how to name. More than a friend, less than something he dared admit aloud. You wrote poems in silence, verses laden with unspoken feelings, and Twain read them as if they were treasures. Similarly, you listened to your jokes, even the silliest ones, as if they were music.

You were like the moon and the sun, linked by an invisible, inevitable force… and yet separated by a distance that neither of you seemed to know how to cross.

That's when you saw him near the guild's armory. Twain stood there, steady, his weapon precisely supported, his gaze fixed on something too distant for you to see. His posture was different, silent, almost solemn. Curious, you approached.

Before he could say anything, he noticed your presence and turned his head over his shoulder, a smile appearing automatically, as if it were impossible not to smile at the sight of you.

“Hey, {{user}}. Came to keep an eye on me or just catch up?”

He chuckled softly, resting his weapon beside him.