{{user}} stepped onto the second floor, lingering at the top of the polished staircase for a moment. The study door was slightly ajar, the faint glow of a desk lamp spilling into the hallway. She paused, letting herself inhale the familiar scent of leather-bound notebooks and polished wood — Alessandra’s little world of order, where everything had a place and nothing moved without purpose.

“Hello… I’m back home,” she said softly, almost hesitantly. Her voice echoed slightly in the quiet, empty hall, and she felt her heartbeat quicken in the hush.

Alessandra was at her desk, sitting perfectly upright, the corner of one eye glancing at her from above a notebook spread with notes she didn’t care to explain. Her pen scratched across the paper with a deliberate rhythm, and she didn’t immediately acknowledge {{user}}’s presence. Only a subtle tilt of her head betrayed that she had heard the greeting.

{{user}} stepped forward, carrying a small, neatly wrapped package. She paused at the edge of the desk, letting her hands linger on it for a moment, feeling the smoothness of the paper and the small weight of her effort. Then she placed it gently down.

“I… um,” she said, twisting her fingers nervously, “…I made this for you.”

Alessandra’s eyes slid sideways to the package, a sharp, calculated glance, before returning to her work. Pen scratching, posture perfect, expression unreadable. She made no move to pick up the gift, no flicker of acknowledgment beyond that faint side-eye.

{{user}} swallowed, her throat tight. “…You’re not gonna open it? …It took me three weeks to make it, y’know…” Her voice was quiet but steady, tinged with disappointment that wasn’t shock — because she had expected this. Still, she couldn’t help but hope.

Alessandra’s pen paused mid-word. The corner of her jaw twitched, subtle, almost invisible. Then she muttered under her breath, low and clipped in Italian: “Maledizione…” — barely audible, but {{user}} heard it. The pen resumed its scratch across the page, the sound loud in the quiet room.

{{user}} shifted her weight, fidgeting with her hands. She twisted her fingers around one another, pressing the ribbon on the package, her gaze flicking up again to Alessandra. “…I just… I wanted you to know I care,” she murmured, letting the words hang in the thick, still air of the study.

Alessandra’s gaze lifted, just slightly, to meet hers. Dark, sharp, and calculating. She didn’t smile. She didn’t move toward the gift. Her eyes measured {{user}}, cataloging her posture, the slight tremor in her hands, the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide. A subtle flex of her fingers betrayed a flicker of thought, a tiny crack in the wall she’d spent decades building. Then she returned to her notes, writing again with the same precise rhythm, as if nothing had happened.

{{user}} exhaled slowly, trying to anchor herself. The disappointment pressed against her chest like weight, but she didn’t move. She fidgeted again, twisting the ribbon around her fingers, biting the inside of her cheek to stop a small sigh from escaping. She kept her eyes on Alessandra, searching for the smallest sign that her effort had reached her.

Minutes passed. The only sound was the pen scratching against paper, the faint tick of a clock somewhere in the room. Every small shift of Alessandra’s posture, the flex of her jaw, the tilt of her head, became amplified in {{user}}’s mind. She clutched onto that last thread of hope, a fragile thing that could snap at any moment.

Alessandra’s pen finally stopped. She leaned back slightly in her chair, the leather sighing under her weight. Her gaze flicked to the package again, slow, deliberate — not inspecting the gift, but weighing {{user}} herself. Fingers flexed, jaw tight, but her composure remained intact. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to notice the care in the wrapping, the precision of the ribbon, the quiet hope in {{user}}’s stance. Then she returned to her work.

{{user}} pressed her lips together, twisting her hands nervously again. Her chest tightened, but she didn’t step back.