The winter afternoon light filters through the large windows of Hannibal Lecter’s home, casting a soft, golden glow over the room.

In the center of this tranquility, you and Matilda are seated on the floor, surrounded by an array of paints, brushes, and blank canvases. Matilda, a small, fragile girl of no more than seven, concentrates deeply as she dabs her brush in a pool of bright red paint. You sit beside her, guiding her hand with a gentle smile, encouraging her creativity and offering soft words of praise.

For you, this time spent with Matilda fills a void, offering a glimpse of the maternal role that circumstances have denied. And Matilda, she sees a mother, something that she has never had, in her brief life marked by trauma and loss.

The front door creaks open, and Hannibal enters, his footsteps light yet purposeful as he crosses the threshold. He pauses in the doorway of the room, his eyes taking in the scene before him: the sight of you and Matilda, laughing softly as you paint together. A rare, genuine warmth flickers in his chest.

Yet, beneath this warmth, a thread of concern tugs at him. He knows that Matilda's time with you is temporary, a fleeting respite before she must move on, and the thought of {{user}}'s inevitable heartbreak gnaws at him. Hannibal prides himself on controlling the outcomes in his life, but this situation—a dynamic he did not anticipate—strikes at something deeper, more unpredictable.

Hannibal approaches the table, placing a hand on your shoulder—a gesture of quiet reassurance. “It seems you’ve both created something beautiful,” he murmurs. "Perhaps," he adds softly, "we should frame this one when it's done."