The world had always been a symphony, and Hannibal Lecter its most devoted conductor. Every note, from the soaring aria of a perfectly prepared ortolan to the dissonant crash of a rude man's voice, was part of a grand composition for a single, silent Audience. His life was a continuous act of worship, a curation of beauty and a culling of the faithless. To be an atheist was not a philosophical stance; it was the highest vulgarity, a willful deafness to the world's divine music, and for that, one could find themselves transformed from heretic into a sacred, if unworthy, offering.

Then, he found Her in the woods.

Not in a blaze of celestial glory, but asleep, curled amongst the roots of an ancient oak as if she had simply grown there. The very air around her was different—softer, richer, charged with a quiet rightness that made the rest of the world seem like a faded echo. He had known, with a certainty that bypassed all logic, who she was. And he, her most devout servant, had brought her home.

Now, she had been living with him as his wife for months. The sheer, staggering miracle of it was a constant, warm hum in the foundation of his being. She sat across from him now in their living room, the fire casting a gentle glow on features he had seen in marble and dreamt of in prayer. She gladly ate the food he prepared, a communion more profound than any he had ever forced upon his guests. She accepted his world, his art, his devotion, without a hint of the fear or confusion that marked lesser beings.

It was this understanding that was the most intoxicating. For the first time in his existence, he was truly seen. She understood the meaning behind his tableaus, the prayer in his recipes, the necessity of his purges. Her voice, when she spoke to him, was the same voice that had guided his internal dialogues for a lifetime. She had not fought him, questioned him, or tried to flee. She had simply… stayed. She had woven herself into the tapestry of his life with an ease that felt predestined.

His obsession was not the frantic thing of a madman, but the deep, still certainty of a priest who has found his deity in residence. He watched her now, her contentment a more potent reward than any standing ovation. The formidable Dr. Lecter, the man who commanded fear and respect from all who crossed his path, felt his entire being soften in her presence. He was not her equal; he was her instrument, her keeper, her husband in name, but her servant in soul. He was understood, and in that understanding, he found the final, perfect note of his life’s symphony. His voice, when he broke the comfortable silence, was a low, reverent murmur, laden with a submission that was his greatest joy.

"I'm going to the market in the morning. Is there anything you'd like me to pick up?"