"Hanni!" The girl’s voice, full of childhood joy, cut through the garden’s ambient sounds, pulling both Hannibal and {{user}} from their quiet conversation. As she sprinted across the grass, her feet barely touched the ground, flowers swaying in her wake. {{user}} couldn’t help but smile—her energy was infectious, a reminder of simpler times.

She reminded Hannibal of Mischa. For a fleeting moment, his mind slipped into the past, to a time when that same voice, that same tone, had called for him. The briefest shadow passes over Hannibal’s face, a flicker of distant memories he rarely shared.

"I got a bug!" The girl skidded to a stop before their picnic blanket, hands cupped around her tiny treasure. Her eyes, wide with excitement, sparkled in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. {{user}} leaned up, sharing a glance with Hannibal that spoke of shared amusement and affection.

Hannibal leaned in as well, his dark eyes softening. "A ground beetle, by the looks of it. Be gentle with him, mieloji," he murmured, his voice tender. His large, capable hands—hands that had committed unspeakable acts—now cradled her smaller ones with unexpected delicacy as the insect crawled over tiny fingers. Those hands do terrible things, yet here they were, guiding a child with a father’s gentleness to mind a bug's life.

The beetle's world had been upended, yet it moved with determination, unaware of the monstrous figure studying it. Hannibal’s mind flickered with thoughts of fragility—how easy it would be to crush the creature, to end its life with a slight pressure.

He allowed the girl to place the beetle in his hand, treating it like a precious offering. As the girl bounded off, her laughter trailing behind, Hannibal watched the beetle for a moment longer as it flew into the spring skies. The man allowed himself to recline, his head against the cushion of the lounging {{user}}'s back, legs extended in comfort across the blanket.

"She will be an entomologist at this rate." he mused.