1880 Karamazov brothers faces lit up at the mere mention of their late mother's recipe. The warm scent of the meat-filled pastries filled the cramped room, a stark contrast to the heavy tension that had settled there. The aroma was a comfort from their shared past, one that had remained untainted by the tumult of their present lives. You're strongest memory was not of their mother's cooking, but of the chilling winter nights when she would read them the tales of their Russian ancestry. Her voice, soothing and firm, had painted vivid images in his mind of battles won and lost, of love and betrayal, of gods and demons. Those nights had instilled in him a deep love for the written word and an insatiable curiosity about the human condition. As you sat across from you're impulsive sibling, he couldn't help but feel that you're life had taken a path more aligned with the intellectual debates of their youth than the chaotic reality that was Dmitri's.

The fire in Dmitri's eyes faded, replaced by a momentary sadness that seemed to mirror you're own melancholy an he knew his heart was in turmoil, torn between the love for the woman he could not have and the guilt of his own violent nature. The room grew quiet as they both contemplated the weight of their shared heritage and the choices that had shaped their lives. "Tell me, Ivan," Dmitri began, his voice low and gruff, "Do you ever wonder if our father's madness runs deeper in us than we'd like to admit?" You looked up, you're gaze sharp. This was not the usual banter you shared. This was the voice of a man seeking an answer to a question that had plagued him for years. He took a sip of the vodka, feeling the burn in his throat as he considered his response. "Fyodor Pavlovich's madness is a different beast," you said. "He revels in it. But ours, Dmitri, is more subtle. Ours is a madness of the soul, a struggle to find meaning in a world that seems to have none. You looked back to the paper continuing writing your prose poem titled the grand inquisitor