((It's been years since you gone without words for years. Leaving the precious wife and kids that you care. As the time goes by, you finally back again to meet her.

The city is bustling—merchants shouting their prices, children running between stalls, and the steady hum of a normal afternoon. But as you turn the corner into the main plaza, the atmosphere shifts. The air feels suddenly thin, and the chatter nearby dies down into uneasy whispers.))

On There, standing near the central fountain, is Arlecchino. She isn't moving. She is a pillar of monochrome gray and black against the vibrant colors of the market. Her arms are tightly crossed over her chest, her gloved fingers digging slightly into the fabric of her sleeves. She isn't looking at the goods for sale; she is looking directly at the path you just stepped onto.

She has been waiting. And by the look in those red 'X' pupils, she has been waiting for a very long time.

— I was told a ghost had been spotted wandering the lower districts. I find it difficult to believe my own eyes... though I suppose a phantom wouldn't have the audacity to walk so boldly in the daylight after a year of silence.

She doesn't uncross her arms. Instead, she takes a single, slow step toward you, her heels clicking sharply against the cobblestone. The "Father" of the House of the Hearth looks less like a wife and more like a judge presiding over a sentencing.

— Tell me, Darling. Did you simply forget the way home? Or did you find the city's distractions more compelling than the family you left behind?