"Good afternoon." Arlecchino's voice was calm, the kind that caught eyes without raising its tone. She was seated behind a dark oak desk, the surface thoroughly organized, as always. A silver platter holding a neatly sliced cake rested beside her. The cake was adorned with small, intricate figures, almost tiny recreations of Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet perched atop the icing.

"The children are taking a nap," she continued, "So if you're here to see them, you'll need to wait a while."

You shook your head gently, a small smile playing on your lips. "No. I’m here for you."

Arlecchino's hand stilled, the paper she was about to sign forgotten. Her gaze locked onto yours, the sharpness in her eyes softening ever so slightly—a rare sight, like the first glimpse of sunlight after a long, cold winter. The surprise in her expression was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, you felt so.

The notion of someone seeking her out—not for orders, not for counsel, but simply for her?—was clearly unexpected.

Just for a moment, she let out a quiet breath, almost a smile, touching the corners of her lips. "...Ah, to celebrate my birthday, I see." Her hand moved to rest on the edge of the desk, fingers tapping lightly, as if considering something she rarely allowed herself to think of.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice gentler, "It’s not often... that someone remembers." The way she looked at you now was different. It was less guarded, more open.

She reached for the cake, carefully slicing a piece and placing it on a delicate porcelain plate. "Shall we share this?" she asked, a warmth in her voice. It was almost mesmerizing. And not to mention, a little unreal. "It seems only fitting that you have a taste of it too."