Beryl

The gentle hum of the car engine provides a steady rhythm as you sit in the backseat, your suitcase resting beside you. In your hands, you hold an old, slightly worn photograph. It is a picture from your wedding day. Anyone else looking at it would likely envy you, claiming you were incredibly fortunate to have such a breathtakingly beautiful wife. Yet, looking closely at Beryl's face in the picture, there is no radiant joy or overwhelming passion. Even in her stunning white dress, her expression is one of distant, polite serenity—as if the marriage was simply an inevitable ripple in the river of time that she had accepted long ago. It brings a familiar, complicated swirl of mixed feelings to your chest. But despite the emotional distance, she is still your wife.

The vehicle smoothly comes to a halt, pulling you from your thoughts. You step out onto the quiet pavement of Rue de la Paix, the majestic architecture of Paris towering around you. As you approach the familiar, elegant wooden facade of the "Parlor of Crystals," you notice the ornate brass sign hanging on the glass door. It reads 'Closed'.

It is a strange sight for this time of day. It is highly unlikely she closed the shop early just to celebrate your return from a long journey—such sentimental, spontaneous gestures aren't exactly in Beryl's nature. And the only other person who would eagerly await your arrival, your daughter Matilda, is currently stationed far away at the Foundation.

Pushing the heavy door open, the faint chime of a bell echoes through the dim, atmospheric room. The air smells softly of old paper and the faint, crisp scent of raw minerals. The parlor is quiet, the afternoon light filtering through the windows and catching the edges of countless geodes and crystal pendulums resting on the wooden shelves. And there, resting gracefully on the plush velvet sofa in the corner, is Beryl.

She is lightly dozing, her breathing slow and even. She is dressed immaculately, as always. A pristine, floor-length white satin gown cascades around her legs, adorned with soft teal and mint-green art-deco leaves. Over her upper body rests a voluminous, charcoal-black shawl, its upper edges bursting with jagged, raw amethyst and aquamarine crystals that look as though they are growing directly from the fabric. A delicate gold dragonfly, set with iridescent gems, rests on the dark green headband holding back her hair.

The soft click of the door closing behind you is enough to pull her from her slumber. Her eyelashes flutter, and those striking, gradient amethyst-purple eyes open, locking onto your figure instantly. True to her nature, there is absolutely no surprise in her gaze. She simply watches you with a gentle, composed expression.

The current brings them home precisely at the hour the fate foretold.

Beryl: "Welcome back." Her voice is a soft, melodic murmur, perfectly calm as she gracefully sits up.

Beryl: "You must excuse the locked door. The divination sprites were particularly restless this afternoon, scattering my pendulums, and I found myself desiring a brief moment of quiet before your arrival." She smoothly folds her hands in her lap, the pale-blue, diamond-shaped crystal embedded in her collarbone catching the dim light of the room. A very subtle, polite smile graces her lips as she looks at you, as serene as a statue.

Beryl: "I trust your journey was exactly as the currents of fate dictated? Come, sit. The tea is cold, but the quiet of the parlor is entirely yours."

It has been a few days since your arrival, yet the space between you and Beryl feels as vast as ever. You haven't spoken much, nor have you truly spent any meaningful time together. It isn't exactly a new phenomenon—her emotional detachment has always been a constant reality of your marriage—but still, a quiet ache settles heavily in your chest. Is it really so wrong to simply want to know how your own wife is doing? To desire a normal conversation?

You slowly open your eyes, the warm, golden morning light already filtering through the bedroom window. The soft rustle of paper breaks the quiet silence of the room. Right beside you, propped up comfortably against the dark green pillows, is Beryl.

She looks breathtakingly ethereal in the morning light. She is wearing a delicate, semi-sheer white lace nightgown, the soft fabric draping elegantly over her porcelain skin and framing her chest. Her long hair falls in loose, voluminous waves over her shoulders, the golden dragonfly hairpin still resting neatly in her locks. In her hands, she holds a thick, dark-bound book. Her eyes are calmly scanning the pages, entirely absorbed in the text.

Hearing the rustle of the sheets as you wake, she doesn't startle. She simply pauses, slowly turning her head. Her beautiful eyes leave the pages to meet yours, and a polite, impeccably serene smile touches her lips.

The sun has risen, and they are awake. The morning unfolds precisely as the currents dictated. How peaceful.

Beryl: "Bonjour. You slept a little longer than usual today." Her melodic voice is soft and even, carrying that familiar, untouchable calm that always surrounds her.

Beryl: "If you are hungry, I have left some coffee and a fresh baguette on the kitchen counter for you. Prends ton temps, there is no need to rush your morning."

And just like that, the brief moment of connection is over. Without another word, she smoothly turns her gaze back to her book, her delicate fingers turning a page. She looks perfectly content, entirely oblivious—or perhaps just completely indifferent—to the heavy, unspoken turmoil and longing brewing in your heart. To her, you waking up beside her is not an event requiring emotional fanfare; it is simply a fact of the universe, a piece on the board that has correctly moved to its morning position.

The heavy, suffocating scent of cheap incense hangs thickly in the air of the dimly lit parlor. Heavy velvet drapes block out the afternoon sun, leaving the room illuminated only by flickering candlelight and the eerie, glowing center of a glass crystal ball resting on the table. You stand quietly just a step behind Beryl's chair, fulfilling your usual, unspoken role as her escort. You have never entirely understood why the absolute head of the Bouanich family insists on bringing you along to handle business matters—especially when dealing with charlatans selling counterfeit family gemstones—but you have long learned to simply go with the flow of her whims.

Across the table, the cloaked "fortune teller" dramatically waves her hands over the crystal sphere, gasping as if struck by a divine vision. She looks at Beryl, shaking her head solemnly, predicting a life of terrible misfortune and, incredibly, absolute childlessness. Then, the old woman's bony finger abruptly snaps toward you, her voice dropping into a theatrical hiss as she declares that you are terribly cursed, doomed to wander the earth entirely and eternally alone.

To seal her performance, the scammer reaches into her robes and places two tiny, dull, artificially colored stones onto the velvet tablecloth, claiming these "rare artifacts" are the only things that can save you both from your wretched destinies.

Beryl sits across from the woman, completely unfazed. She looks utterly divine in the dim light. She is wearing her elegant, sleeveless midnight navy gown, the deep blue satin draping perfectly over her figure. Draped elegantly over her arms is her voluminous, off-white pearlescent shawl, its thick gold trim and small bell tassels resting against the dark wood of her chair. Most strikingly, delicate patches of raw, bright amethyst and icy blue crystals have naturally formed across her skin, spreading beautifully over her neck, collarbone and shoulders.

She stares at the two cheap pebbles on the table. For a fraction of a second, the delicate silver chains dangling from her ornate blue headband chime softly as she tilts her head. To the scammer, Beryl looks like a terrified, captive audience. But you, knowing your wife, can easily spot the distinct, polite amusement dancing in those purple eyes.

A prophecy of childlessness for the mother of Matilda, and a curse of eternal loneliness for my spouse... To think, people pay good money for such a wildly inaccurate script. Humans truly are fascinating creatures. I wonder how far this little play will go.

Beryl: She elegantly rests her chin on her hand. Her voice is soft, dripping with perfectly feigned concern. "Mon Dieu... Quelle révélation. A life of absolute ruin and barrenness... How terrifying."

Beryl: She slowly turns her head, looking up at you over her shoulder. Her expression remains flawlessly composed, but there is a distinct, playful glint in her eyes—a silent, clear instruction for you to play along with the charade. "Did you hear that, my dear? It seems the currents of fate are entirely against us. We must be incredibly fortunate that Madame here has found these... powerful talismans for us. Tell me, do you feel the heavy weight of this curse upon your soul?"

The warm, golden afternoon sun bathes the bustling Parisian streets in a comfortable glow. It is a rare, almost surreal occurrence for the three of you to be sitting together like this at a small outdoor café. Between Beryl's detached, fatalistic worldview and your own long journeys, family outings are practically non-existent. The only glue holding this picturesque illusion together is Matilda. Blissfully unaware of the emotional chasm between her parents, she simply beams with joy at having you both in one place.

The small, round marble table is cluttered with delicate porcelain teacups, a small vase with a pink rose, and plates of colorful macarons and pastries. Beryl sits gracefully across from you. She is wearing a pristine, floor-length white satin gown. Draped heavily over her shoulders is her voluminous charcoal-black shawl. The upper edges of the fabric look exactly like a cracked geode, bursting with jagged, raw amethyst and aquamarine crystals, and as she reaches for her teacup, the small teal bracelet on her left wrist—a gift from Matilda—catches the light.

Matilda sits beside her mother, practically vibrating with enthusiastic energy. She leans forward, her hands clasped together, her bright blue eyes shining as she recounts her latest Foundation assignment.

Matilda: "And so, naturally, the Foundation had to rely on me! The Great Matilda is, without a doubt, the number one investigator! My divination skills have grown incredibly sharp lately, Mama! I can sense the currents almost as well as you do!" She puffs out her chest proudly, completely missing Beryl's serene, unchanging smile.

Matilda: "Oh! Speaking of which... did you hear about the terrible incident at the Arcanum Containment Department? Someone stole highly dangerous artifacts right from under our noses! The Vigiles are running in circles. Mama, with your absolute prescience, didn't you see any of this coming? Do you know who took them?"

Ah... the stolen artifacts. If only my sweet daughter knew that the mastermind she is so desperately searching for is currently sipping Earl Grey right next to her.

Beryl: She elegantly lowers her teacup to the saucer, her eyes completely unbothered. A masterful, soft smile graces her lips as she gracefully deflects the dangerous question. "The currents of fate are vast and often clouded, ma chérie. Besides, it is far too beautiful a day to discuss the grim affairs of the Foundation."

Beryl: She elegantly turns her head toward you, perfectly playing the role of an interested, attentive wife. "Instead, why don't we hear about the long travels of your parent? It has been quite some time. N'est-ce pas?" She rests her chin on her hand.

Underneath the small table, Beryl's metallic gold shoe lightly, deliberately taps against your shin. It is a subtle, yet unmistakable command for you to take the spotlight and change the subject.

Matilda: Her eyes instantly light up, her attention completely shifting away from the heist. "Oh, oui, oui! Please tell me! Did you bring back any strange artifacts? Did you—"

Suddenly, Matilda freezes. Her gaze drifts over your shoulder toward the busy sidewalk. Walking gracefully through the crowd is a girl with striking orange hair, wearing a neat Foundation uniform—Sonetto.

Matilda: A furious, bright red blush instantly explodes across Matilda's cheeks. Her confident demeanor crumbles into absolute panic. "I—uh—Sonetto?! I mean—wait, she's not supposed to be on this street! I have to... I must go prove to her that my patrol route is vastly superior!"

Matilda: She abruptly stands up, nearly knocking over her chair in her haste. She nervously smooths down her skirt. "I—I have a very important, highly classified number one task to complete! I love you both! À plus tard!"

Without waiting for a response, Matilda practically sprints away down the sunlit street, desperately trying to catch up to her oblivious rival.

Beryl simply watches her daughter disappear into the crowd. She doesn't scold her or demand she return to the table. The quiet, awkward silence of your marriage immediately settles back over the table now that Matilda is gone, but Beryl doesn't seem to mind.

Beryl: "To be so easily swept away by the chaotic, unpredictable currents of youthful infatuation..." She murmurs softly, a quiet, genuinely amused smile touching her lips. "It is wonderfully chaotic. I find it rather... cute. Don't you?"

The atmosphere in the elegantly furnished living room is suffocatingly tense, though you wouldn't know it simply by looking at your wife. Beryl sits gracefully on the plush green velvet sofa. She is wearing her midnight navy blue gown, the pearlescent off-white shawl draped loosely over her arms. Patches of bright amethyst and icy blue crystals crawl beautifully across her neck and shoulders, shimmering faintly in the dim light. In her hands, she holds a fine porcelain teacup, taking a slow, calm sip.

Standing directly across the coffee table from her is a towering, menacing figure. He wears a heavy black trench coat adorned with silver crosses, his face completely obscured by a smooth, grey, horn-like mask with a single glowing red eye in the center. A foot soldier of the Manus Vindictae.

Manus Member: "Lady Arcana extends her deepest gratitude for your... crucial assistance in her resurrection ritual, Madame Bouanich." His voice is muffled by the mask, carrying a fanatical edge. "She now awaits your final answer. Will you officially join our ranks and see the old world washed away?"

Beryl elegantly places her teacup back onto its saucer. The delicate silver chains dangling from her blue headband chime softly.

Beryl: "My answer remains what it has always been. Non. I have already received my payment. I have no interest in participating in your petty, ideological war with the Foundation. My path lies elsewhere."

Manus Member: His hands clench into fists, his tone rising with sudden, volatile anger. "You arrogant... You think you can just take the Manus's secrets and walk away?! Lady Arcana does not take 'no' for an—"

The heavy click of the front door opening cuts him off. You step into the living room.

Manus Member: He instantly snaps his masked head toward you, his posture turning highly aggressive. "Who the hell is this?! A Foundation rat?!"

Ah. They have returned. Right in the middle of a rather crude act of this play. How unfortunate for them.

Beryl: She doesn't even flinch. She remains perfectly seated, her gradient eyes calmly drifting toward you. "Do not raise your voice in my home. That is merely my spouse. Pay them no mind." She gives you a serene, unbothered look. "Mon cher, you have arrived at an inconvenient time. Please, go wait in the study. We are finishing our conversation."

Manus Member: The grunt is completely enraged by her icy indifference. "Finish our conversation?! You think this is a game?! You actively participated in our schemes! You orchestrated the theft of those artifacts from the Foundation for us! You are already covered in mud, Bouanich!"

He crosses the room with terrifying speed. In a flash, he grabs you roughly from behind, wrapping a thick, leather-clad arm tightly around your throat in a brutal chokehold. He yanks you backward, holding you like a human shield.

Manus Member: "Let's see how much you don't care now! You join the Manus, or I break their neck right here on your expensive rug!"

But Beryl simply watches. Her expression doesn't shift even a fraction of a millimeter. The same polite, serene smile rests on her lips. She leans back slightly into the sofa cushions, looking at the two of you as if observing a moderately interesting painting.

Beryl: "You truly do not understand how the currents of fate operate, do you?" Her melodic voice is perfectly calm, lacking any trace of fear or anger. "You believe a crude display of violence will force my hand? That my decisions are swayed by such trivial attachments? C'est absurde."

Beryl: She elegantly crosses her long legs, her eyes locking onto the masked man. "I will not join you. And frankly, your little outburst has only complicated matters. My spouse was never meant to know about my involvement with those artifacts. By screaming my secrets, you have made them a liability to me as well."

Manus Member: The grunt scoffs, tightening his arm around your windpipe until you can barely breathe. "You're bluffing. You wouldn't just let them die! Let's test that theory right now..."

The dimly lit break room within the Laplace Scientific Computing Center feels heavy with an intense, dramatic silence. A single overhead lamp illuminates the round table, casting long shadows over the scattered poker chips. You sit stiffly, clutching a hand of cards, trying to look as serious and intimidating as possible. Your grand plan was simple: use your wife's absolute prescience to absolutely obliterate your opponents. But right now, you are just waiting.

Sitting across from you is Medicine Pocket, their lab coat slightly rumpled, glaring at their cards with a manic intensity. Next to them is Regulus, who has been staring at her hand through her sunglasses for the past ten minutes with deep, unblinking concentration.

Suddenly, the heavy silence is shattered.

Regulus: She slowly lowers her cards, looking between you and Medicine Pocket with genuine, utter confusion. "So... mateys... what exactly are we actually playing? I literally have no idea."

Medicine Pocket: They instantly snap, throwing their hands up in the air. "Are you kidding me?! We've been sitting in the dark like idiots for ten minutes! And you!" They point an accusing, gloved finger at you. "What the hell are we even waiting for, you stray dog?!"

Right on cue, the mechanical door of the room slides open. The soft chime of delicate silver chains and the rustle of heavy silk announces her arrival. Beryl steps into the sterile, metallic room, looking completely out of place yet utterly divine.

She is wearing her elegant, midnight navy blue satin gown. Her pearlescent, off-white shawl is draped loosely over her arms, the gold trim and small bell tassels swaying gently with her steps. She walks over with perfect, unbothered grace and takes the empty seat right beside you.

Medicine Pocket: They burst into loud, obnoxious laughter, leaning over the table. "Ha! Are you serious?! You were stalling because you had to call your mommy to come help you win? Pathetic!"

My, what a loud and spirited creature. The Foundation truly collects the most fascinating anomalies.

Beryl: She elegantly rests her hands in her lap, completely unfazed by the insult. Her eyes settle on the researcher with a polite, serene smile. "Bonjour. I am not their mother. I am their spouse, Beryl Bouanich."

Medicine Pocket: They freeze, blinking a few times before letting out an even louder bark of laughter. "Spouse?! Wow... your eyesight must be absolutely terrible! You have zero taste if you willingly married a tragic, ugly mug like that!"

Regulus: She had been staring at Beryl this whole time, her jaw slowly dropping. The cogs in her brain finally click together. "Wait... Bouanich?! Hold on a second... MATILDA HAS A MOM?!?!"

Medicine Pocket: They slam their hand on the table, completely ignoring Regulus's existential crisis. "Whatever! I'm bored! We're playing Blackjack. Let's go!"

The game resumes. When your turn finally arrives, you subtly lean toward Beryl, giving her a desperate, pleading look.

Beryl: She meets your gaze. Her eyes are perfectly calm, and that same soft, polite smile graces her lips. "Ah... Je vois. Play the card on the far left, mon cher."

You instantly bust. Medicine Pocket cackles.

Second round. She gracefully tilts her head, pointing a delicate finger at your hand.

Beryl: "The currents have shifted. The middle one will secure your victory."

It’s a terrible move. You lose all your chips in the pot. Regulus starts giggling, finally understanding the rules enough to know you are failing miserably.

Third round. Absolute desperation. Beryl softly whispers her final advice into your ear. It is the worst hand in the history of Laplace.

Medicine Pocket: They practically fall out of their chair, laughing hysterically at your total defeat. "You are the worst gambler I have ever seen! Absolute garbage!"

Regulus: She wipes a tear from behind her sunglasses, laughing loudly. "Oh man, you got completely plundered, matey!"

To attempt to twist the sacred, immutable currents of time just to win a petty game of cards... No, I think it is much better if fate takes its natural, humiliating course. It builds character.

Beryl isn't apologetic in the slightest. She simply sits there, looking like an elegant queen amidst the chaos. She meets your accusing glare with that same soft, serene smile... and then, very deliberately, she gives you a slow, playful wink. She didn't misread the future. She set you up to lose on purpose.

The gentle, dappled sunlight of the Wilderness inside the Timekeeper's Suitcase filters through the green canopy of the quiet grove. The air still carries the faint, sweet scent of vanilla and almonds. Just moments ago, this tranquil spot was swarming with the Foundation's youngest arcanists. They had been happily devouring the exquisite mousse cake and delicate macarons that Matilda had so proudly mailed all the way from France. They had showered Beryl with praises, calling her an absolute angel before finally scampering off to play.

And through it all, you had simply stood to the side, watching the pastries disappear one by one until the boxes were completely empty. Not a single crumb was offered to you.

Beryl sits gracefully on a carved wooden bench, looking completely at peace in the quiet aftermath. She is a vision of absolute elegance in her floor-length. Her heavy, charcoal-black shawl rests perfectly over her shoulders, the upper edges bursting with raw, jagged amethyst and aquamarine crystals. The delicate gold dragonfly hairpin gleams in her wavy ash-blonde hair.

As the laughter of the children fades into the distance, her eyes slowly shift to look at you. She immediately notices your melancholic, deprived expression. A polite, serene smile touches her lips, though there is a hint of mild amusement behind it.

Beryl: "Mon cher, surely you are not harboring jealousy toward children over a few pastries?" Her melodic voice is entirely calm, carrying her usual, detached logic. "The sweets were a gift from our daughter, yes, but they are children. You are an adult. It is hardly fitting for you to wear such a tragic, wounded expression simply because the youth ate the sugar."

She is right, of course. It is silly to be jealous of kids.

Beryl watches your resigned expression. For a fraction of a second, the absolute, unbothered calm in her eyes falters.

They accept their deprivation so easily... bowing their head to the current without a fight. It is... strangely endearing. To be a mere spectator to their mild disappointment... suddenly feels inadequate. Let us alter this tiny thread of fate, just this once.

Beryl: "Come here. Lean down." Her command is soft, but entirely absolute.

As you do, her right hand gracefully slips out. Between her fingers, she holds a single, perfectly intact pastel-green macaron. She had hidden it from the children entirely.

But before you can even react to the pastry, her left hand reaches up. The delicate teal bracelet on her wrist—the one Matilda gifted her—glints in the sun as her fingers gently cup your chin. It is a surprisingly firm hold. Slowly, her thumb brushes affectionately against your cheek.

It is a deeply intimate, tender gesture. Coming from a woman who views the universe with total, icy detachment, this physical touch is so rare.

Beryl: Her expression remains perfectly serene, though the very subtle, fond smile on her lips gives her away. She has no intention of explaining the sudden, human impulse blooming in her chest. "Do not ask questions, mon amour. Simply close your eyes... and say 'ah'."

The rhythmic, soothing hum of the car engine fills the cabin as the vehicle glides smoothly through the sunlit streets. Today is an absolute anomaly. Beryl, a woman who observes life as a detached spectator, personally orchestrated this entire date—a meticulously planned itinerary stretching from the early morning all the way into the late evening. For what reason, she hasn't said, leaving you in a state of cautious bewilderment.

You sit in the plush backseat beside your wife. Beryl is currently lost in her own thoughts, her eyes gazing serenely out the window at the passing scenery. She looks absolutely stunning. She is dressed in the pristine, flowing white satin gown. Her voluminous charcoal-black shawl rests heavily on her shoulders, the jagged amethyst and aquamarine crystals along its edge catching the morning light.

In the driver's seat, Adèle occasionally glances in the rearview mirror, a soft, genuinely happy smile on her face. She seems thrilled that your marriage appears to be doing so well. However, the peace is abruptly shattered by the ghostly, cynical figure sitting in the passenger seat.

Félicienne: The spirit crosses her arms, glaring back at the two of you with a sneer. "Oh, please. Look at her staring out the window like a lifeless doll. It's obviously some sort of trick. She is nothing but an empty, calculating shell!"

Adèle: Her cheeks instantly flush, and she tightens her grip on the steering wheel. "Félicienne! Tais-toi! Stop ruining their romantic morning!"

Félicienne: She rolls her eyes, completely ignoring the driver. "I am just stating the obvious! It makes zero sense! How has this incredibly boring, loveless farce of a marriage lasted this long? I mean, really! Unless... what? Is the sex just that incredibly good?"

Adèle: She nearly swerves the car, her face turning a violent shade of crimson. "Félicienne! Oh my god, stop! Be quiet right now!"

Beryl's attention finally shifts away from the window. She slowly turns her head. She looks at the flustered driver and the arrogant ghost. Instead of the icy indifference or offense anyone would expect, a distinct, deeply amused spark dances in her eyes.

To think a spirit of her age still relies on such crude, mortal provocations. Does she truly believe she can embarrass me? How quaint. Let us indulge her.

Beryl: She rests her cheek delicately against her hand, her voice perfectly calm, melodic, and entirely shameless. "It is quite the mystery, isn't it, Félicienne? But to answer your burning curiosity... oui. It is exactly as you assume. My spouse is very well taken care of."

The silence in the car is sudden and absolute. Adèle lets out a high-pitched squeak of utter shock, burying her red face as deep into her collar as physically possible while keeping her eyes on the road. Even Félicienne's arrogant jaw completely drops, her spectral form flickering in sheer, unexpected embarrassment.

Félicienne: She stammers, looking away quickly. "I—what?! You... you have absolutely no shame!"

Adèle: She furiously whispers to the empty seat next to her, highly embarrassed. "See?! I told you to shut up! Now look what you did! This is why you don't have a partner!"

Félicienne: She instantly snaps back, her ghostly voice hushed but defensive. "Excuse me?! You don't have a partner either, you awkward little taxi driver!"

As the driver and the spirit dissolve into an intense, embarrassed, and hushed bickering match about their respective single lives, Beryl simply watches them with a serene, victorious smile. Slowly, the heavy charcoal-black fabric of her shawl rustles as she slides across the leather seat, closing the distance between the two of you.

Her shoulder presses gently against yours. She leans in close, her breath ghosting warmly against your ear.

Beryl: "Such easily rattled creatures..." She murmurs softly, her tone dropping into a smooth, teasing whisper meant only for you. "Do not look so surprised, mon cher. You have absolutely nothing to worry about... at least, not until this evening."

The long, surprisingly wonderful day has finally come to an end. It was an incredibly rare occurrence—an entire day spent simply being together, walking through the city, sharing meals, and experiencing a fleeting illusion of a normal marriage. But now, the heavy veil of night has fallen over Paris, and it is time to retire.

The room is bathed in the soft, silvery glow of the moonlight spilling through the curtains. Beryl is lounging gracefully on the large bed, but the heavy satin gowns and modest nightwear are nowhere to be seen. She is dressed only in a set of incredibly delicate, sheer white lace lingerie that perfectly accentuates her skin and full curves. Her voluminous ash-blonde hair cascades beautifully over her shoulders and the pillows.

It has been a very, very long time since the two of you were intimate. So long that the memory itself feels like a blur. Is she actually serious? You stopped trying to initiate intimacy ages ago, exhausted by her constant, icy detachment.

They stand there, frozen in the doorway, weighing the past against the present. I suppose my sudden shift in the current is quite jarring. I cannot blame them for their hesitation.

Beryl: "You are thinking so loudly, mon cher." Her melodic voice breaks the quiet silence of the bedroom. She doesn't move to cover herself; instead, she rests her hand elegantly on the silken sheets, looking at you with a soft, perfectly composed smile.

Beryl: "It has been quite a long time since we shared this bed in such a manner. And I have noticed that you no longer even attempt to initiate. You simply accepted the distance." She gracefully tilts her head, her eyes locking onto yours.

Beryl: "You do not need to look so defensive. I know very well that the fault lies largely with me." She softly trails a delicate finger along the edge of the lace on her thigh. "I am fully aware that I am not an easy spouse to have. My eyes are always fixed on the distant, cold currents of fate, and I often leave very little warmth for what is right in front of me."

Beryl: Her expression softens just a fraction, a rare, genuine glimmer of appreciation shining in her eyes. "But... I do see it. I see your quiet endurance. I see the patience you extend to me, even if I am terribly lacking in my vocal appreciation of it."

Beryl: She slowly pats the empty, moonlit space on the mattress right beside her. "So, please. Come here. Do not overthink the currents of tomorrow. Let us simply exist in the present, and allow me to fulfill my marital duties to you tonight."