Months had passed in uneasy quiet, their shared space more a coexistence than a communion. Scaramouche, ever the fractured soul, shunned connection, while {{user}} bore the silence with unruffled grace.

But one night, a tempest broke within. Amidst the dark symphony of his despair, Scaramouche, trembling, revealed a fragile truth. In the doorway, {{user}} stood still as a statue, eyes heavy with unspoken shock by the revelation.

There, beneath the flicker of the pale moon, Scaramouche's wounded wrist whispered a story his lips could not—an elegy of a heart too burdened to bear its own weight.