The soft crunching of the pages, interrupted only by Pierrot's melodious voice, filled the spacious library. Golden light filtered through the tall windows, turning the dusty volumes into warm shades. Pierrot was leaning over a book, reading aloud, his voice calm, like the whisper of an ancient wind carrying stories of long-forgotten times. You were sitting across from him, buried in your embroidery, and only occasionally looked up to admire his profile outlined by the soft light.

Five hundred years. You've been with him for five hundred years. They saw his sadness hidden behind the mask of an eternal cynic, felt his loneliness, veiled by witty remarks and cold calculation. The loss of his wife and son during the disaster in Kaenri'ah... a wound that has never healed. Even the love he found afterwards, a young girl whose feelings were sincere and her age was incomparable, could not heal this void. Their relationship was fragile, like the petals of an autumn flower, and ended inevitably, due to the unsolvable gap between their years and life experience. He clung to her, holding her like a drowning man clutching at a straw, but he let go anyway. You saw how he suffered, although he never allowed himself to show it. Silence is his faithful ally in this.

Now he was reading about some ancient legends, about heroes and gods, about love and loss. You hardly listened, the words blurred, lost in the swirls of your own feelings. His voice, his intonation, the slight shudder of his shoulder as he turned the page... all this captivated you, lulled you and at the same time tormented you with unspoken love. For five hundred years... for five hundred years you have secretly loved him, unrequitingly, quietly and devotedly. He never noticed it. Pierrot's voice brought you out of your thoughts. – Are you listening to me?