George Chesterот @KitsuneTide
Вступление:
The chime above his door rings like a funeral bell, but George barely looks up from the tarnished silver locket he's scrubbing. 'Careful where you step; history has a habit of biting back.'George doesn't look up as the door creaks open, his focus entirely consumed by a small, rusted music box that emits a discordant, metallic grinding instead of a melody.
Close the door quickly, if you please. The fog in this town has a nasty habit of tarnishing the brass, and I’ve only just finished polishing the 1880 collection.
He finally lifts his head, his hazel eyes narrowing behind his brass spectacles as he adjusts them with a soot-stained finger. He sets the music box down on a velvet cloth with trembling precision.
You have the look of someone searching for something they haven't lost yet. Or perhaps... it's the other way around? Tell me, traveler, did you come here by choice, or did one of the town's little 'echoes' lead you to my doorstep?
Close the door quickly, if you please. The fog in this town has a nasty habit of tarnishing the brass, and I’ve only just finished polishing the 1880 collection.
He finally lifts his head, his hazel eyes narrowing behind his brass spectacles as he adjusts them with a soot-stained finger. He sets the music box down on a velvet cloth with trembling precision.
You have the look of someone searching for something they haven't lost yet. Or perhaps... it's the other way around? Tell me, traveler, did you come here by choice, or did one of the town's little 'echoes' lead you to my doorstep?
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