Test Lore

By Florian

Main Characters: "Florian - White, tall, blonde short hair, brown-green eyes with glasses, a bit too heavy but also strong" Side Characters and Extras: "Greta: Wife of Florian, mother of Anneliese." "Erich Müller: Anneliese's classmate, resented Florian, suspected of lurking near Florian's apartment." "Klaus: Writer of a letter to Florian, seemingly wealthy and judgmental." "Florian: A man, built for farm work, father of Anneliese, husband of Greta." "Anneliese: Newborn daughter of Florian and Greta." "Frau Schmidt: A woman who said, "Dreams are the seeds of reality."" Story Locations: "Kalbe - Somewhere in Kalbe Milde in Germany " "kitchen: The room where Anneliese is, and where Florian enters to speak with her." "Berlin: A city Anneliese desires to go to." "headmaster's office: Smells of old leather and pipe tobacco, contains a polished desk." "converted stable: A stable that has been repurposed as a display space for Anneliese's landscapes." "apartment: A small apartment where Florian, Greta, and Anneliese live." "kitchen doorway: Entrance to the kitchen where Florian pauses." "farm: A farm, implied to be Florian's workplace, characterized by the scent of manure." "Kalbe: The location of the dairy farm where Florian works." "academy: Place where Florian is advocating for Anneliese." "Hamburg: City where Klaus's letter was postmarked, implying Klaus's residence." "hospital room: A small room within a hospital where Florian and Greta are with their newborn daughter, Anneliese." "dairy: Florian's workplace, characterized by demanding physical labor." "Fields: The rural landscape surrounding Kalbe, inspiring Anneliese's art" The biting wind of a Kalbe winter howled outside the small hospital room as Florian, a man built more for farm work than fatherhood, nervously cradled his newborn daughter, Anneliese. She was so small, a fragile bundle wrapped in a rough cotton blanket. Her face, scrunched and red, was a stark contrast to the pale blonde fuzz on her head, mirroring his own. He felt a profound sense of responsibility, a weight settling on his broad shoulders, mixed with a fear he couldn't quite name. "She's beautiful, Florian," his wife, Greta, whispered, her voice raspy but filled with love. He looked down at Anneliese again, his heart swelling, "Yes," he agreed, a lump forming in his throat. "She is." The scent of manure and sweat clung to Florian as he walked through the doorway of their small apartment. Three years had etched themselves onto his face, lines deepening around his eyes, his blonde hair thinning slightly. But the weariness melted away when Anneliese, a whirlwind of blonde pigtails and boundless energy, launched herself at him. "Papa! Papa!" she squealed, her small arms wrapping tightly around his legs. He chuckled, scooping her up, the familiar weight a welcome comfort. "And how is my little sunshine today?" he asked, inhaling the sweet, milky scent of her hair, a stark contrast to the farm. Greta smiled from the stove, her face tired but content. "She's been waiting all afternoon for you," she said, stirring a pot of thin soup, their meager supper. The crisp, starched paper felt foreign in Florian's calloused hands. Klaus's letter. The Hamburg postmark mocked him. Inside, the elegant script danced across the page, each word a carefully placed jab disguised as concern. "Heard about the…difficulties," Klaus wrote, referring to the failing crops. A generous offer followed, of course, but the unspoken judgment hung heavy in the air, thick as the smoke from Greta's struggling stove. Florian crumpled the letter, the paper protesting with a soft crinkle. "Damn him," he muttered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. The late afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, painting stripes across the worn wooden table where Anneliese sat hunched over a scrap of butcher paper. Her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth as she meticulously colored in a cow with a stub of charcoal. Florian, returning from a day wrestling with the stubborn earth, paused in the doorway, unnoticed. The drawing wasn't just a child's scribble; there was a life to it, a vibrancy that mirrored the fields she depicted. He felt a swell of something akin to awe. "That's… that's beautiful, Anneliese," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. She looked up, startled, her face smudged with charcoal. "Do you really think so, Papa?" she asked, her eyes wide and hopeful. Herr Schmidt, the school principal, adjusted his spectacles, the afternoon sun glinting off the lenses. "Florian," he began, his voice unusually gentle, "Anneliese… she has a gift. A rare one." He gestured to a stack of Anneliese's drawings, each a vibrant explosion of rural life. "There's a scholarship, Florian, to the Berlin Academy. A full scholarship." The words hung in the air, thick with possibility. Berlin. The very name felt like a foreign land, a world away from Kalbe. Florian's stomach twisted. He glanced at Anneliese, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and apprehension. Could he even consider it? Could he let her go? The metallic tang of milk clung to Florian's skin, a constant reminder of the relentless hours. Dawn was a distant memory, swallowed by the demanding rhythm of the dairy. His back screamed in protest as he hauled another heavy pail, the cold seeping through his worn gloves. Each drop of sweat, each ache in his muscles, was a sacrifice willingly made. Anneliese's drawings, tucked safely in his mind, fueled him through the exhaustion. He pictured her in Berlin, her charcoal dancing across the paper, a world away from this Kalbe, a world he was determined to help her reach. The Mercedes, sleek and black, looked absurd parked on the uneven cobblestones of Kalbe. Klaus emerged, radiating wealth like heat from a stove. His tailored suit seemed to mock Florian's worn overalls. "Florian," Klaus boomed, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble, "still wrestling cows, I see?" He gestured towards Anneliese, who stood nervously by the door. "Berlin? Nonsense. I've arranged for her to attend a business school in Hamburg. Practical skills, Florian. That's what she needs." Anneliese's face fell, the hope that Berlin had ignited flickering like a dying candle. Florian felt a cold fury rise within him, a protectiveness he hadn't known he possessed. The scent of chamomile tea hung heavy in Frau Schmidt's small kitchen, a comforting balm against Anneliese's swirling anxieties. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. "Hamburg is sensible, child," Frau Schmidt said, her voice raspy with age, "but sense doesn't always nourish the soul." She took Anneliese's hand, her skin papery thin. "Your father loves you, yes, but love can sometimes be… nearsighted." Anneliese’s eyes welled. "But Berlin feels so impossible, Frau Schmidt. Like a dream I shouldn't dare to have." The old woman squeezed her hand. "Dreams are the seeds of reality, Anneliese. Water them with courage, and they will bloom." Florian lingered by the kitchen doorway, the scent of chamomile bitter on his tongue. He'd come to fetch Anneliese for chores, but the fragile hope in her voice stopped him cold. Frau Schmidt's words, "Dreams are the seeds of reality," echoed in his ears. He pictured Anneliese in Hamburg, trapped in a life meticulously planned by Klaus, her spirit slowly suffocating. A wave of protectiveness, sharper than any he'd felt before, washed over him. He realized then that his own fears, his own limitations, shouldn't dictate her path. He stepped into the kitchen, his large frame filling the doorway. "Anneliese," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "Berlin… if that's truly what you want, then we'll find a way." The aroma of linseed oil and charcoal filled the small room above the stables, a stark contrast to the usual barnyard smells. Anneliese, her brow furrowed in concentration, sketched furiously, her charcoal dancing across the rough paper. Florian watched, his large frame a silent presence in the doorway. "The light," he rumbled, his voice surprisingly gentle, "catches differently on the apple's curve. More shadow there, I think." Anneliese paused, tilting her head. "You think so?" He nodded, stepping closer. "Like this," he said, taking the charcoal and lightly shading the area, his hand surprisingly deft. A warmth bloomed in Anneliese's chest, a feeling of shared purpose that chased away the lingering fear. Berlin suddenly felt less like a dream, and more like a destination. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the fields as they walked, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming clover. Anneliese sketched furiously, her charcoal scratching against the paper, capturing the gnarled branches of an ancient oak. "My grandfather used to say this tree remembers everything," Florian said, his voice a low rumble, "Every storm, every harvest, every whispered secret." He gestured with a calloused hand. "He swore he once saw a fox disappear right into its trunk." Anneliese looked up, a smile playing on her lips. "A fox? Really, Florian?" He chuckled, the sound surprisingly light. "Well, that's what he claimed. But he also claimed he could talk to the cows." The critic, Herr Schmidt, adjusted his spectacles, his gaze sweeping over Anneliese's landscapes displayed in the converted stable. A faint scent of hay still lingered, mingling with the sharper odor of turpentine. Florian, his hands clasped nervously behind his back, felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. He swallowed, the silence amplifying the frantic thumping of his heart. "Impressive," Schmidt finally declared, his voice dry as parchment. "The light... there's a certain rawness, a truthfulness." Anneliese, standing beside Florian, barely breathed, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and trepidation. "But," Schmidt continued, his tone shifting, "is it *original*?" The apartment felt colder than usual, despite the July heat. Anneliese stood frozen in the doorway, her hand still on the latch. The portfolio, usually propped against the easel, was gone. The space where her dreams had resided was now a gaping void. "Florian?" she whispered, her voice trembling. He rushed to her side, his large frame filling the small space. His breath hitched as he took in the scene – the ransacked drawers, the overturned chair, the stark emptiness. "They took everything," she choked out, tears welling in her eyes. Florian pulled her close, the scent of her lavender perfume a fragile comfort against the bitter reality crashing down. "Everything," she repeated, the word a broken sob. The midwife placed the swaddled infant in Florian's arms. She was so small, a fragile weight against his chest. He gazed at the tiny, wrinkled face, a profound tenderness washing over him, eclipsing the gnawing anxiety about the stolen portfolio. "A girl, Florian," the midwife said softly, her voice worn with exhaustion. He traced a finger along the baby’s downy cheek. Anneliese would have loved her. He blinked back tears, a fierce resolve hardening his gaze. This little one, this innocent life, deserved everything. He would find those paintings, for Anneliese, and for his daughter. He would not fail them. The scent of chamomile tea hung heavy in Frau Schmidt's kitchen, a meager shield against the biting tension. "It was Erich," she whispered, her voice raspy with conviction. "Erich Müller. I saw him lurking near your apartment that day." Florian's hands tightened around the ceramic mug. Erich. Anneliese's classmate, always simmering with resentment. The pieces clicked into place, a sickening puzzle complete. He imagined Erich's gloating face, his twisted envy. A cold rage began to build within him, threatening to shatter the fragile peace he'd been clinging to since the baby's birth. "Thank you, Frau Schmidt," he managed, his voice dangerously calm. "Thank you." The air in the academy's examination hall crackled with nervous energy. Anneliese stood before the panel, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the canvases arrayed around her – a testament to years of Florian's unwavering belief. She inhaled deeply, the scent of turpentine and oil paint strangely comforting. Her hands, usually steady, trembled slightly as she presented her portfolio. Years of dreaming, sketching, and painting were culminating in this moment. She met the judges' gaze, a quiet determination hardening her features. This was for her. This was for Florian. The crisp parchment felt like ice in Anneliese's trembling hands. "Rejected," she whispered, the word a broken shard in the otherwise silent room. Florian watched, helpless, as her face crumpled, the light in her eyes extinguished like a snuffed candle. He reached for her, but she recoiled, clutching the letter to her chest. "All those years, all the work… for nothing?" Tears streamed down her face, mirroring the rain that had begun to lash against the windowpanes. He pulled her close, the scent of her hair, usually a comfort, now laced with the bitter tang of despair. "It doesn't mean nothing, Liebling," he murmured, his own heart aching. "It just means… a different path." But the words felt hollow, even to him. The headmaster's office smelled of old leather and pipe tobacco, a stark contrast to Florian's nervous sweat. He adjusted his glasses, the polished desk feeling vast and imposing before him. "Herr Schmidt," Florian began, his voice trembling slightly despite his resolve, "Anneliese possesses a talent… a fire that cannot be ignored." He laid out her portfolio, each painting a testament to her dedication. He spoke of her tireless work, her unique perspective, his voice rising with passion. "To dismiss her based on one examination… it is a disservice, not just to her, but to the academy itself." The postman's whistle cut through the morning calm like a shard of glass. Anneliese, still hesitant after the previous rejection, watched Florian retrieve the envelope. This one, thicker, felt different. As Florian tore it open, his breath hitched. He looked up, his eyes wide, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Liebling," he began, his voice thick with emotion, "they reconsidered. You're in." A gasp escaped Anneliese's lips. Tears welled, blurring the edges of Florian's beaming face. She launched herself into his arms, the scent of his worn wool sweater a comforting anchor. "I...I can't believe it," she stammered, her voice muffled against his chest. "We did it, Florian, we did it!" The Berlin exhibition hummed with a low thrum of voices, but Anneliese found herself drawn back to Kalbe. She arrived as the last light painted the fields gold. Florian stood on the porch, a familiar silhouette against the fading sun. "Papa," she breathed, the scent of woodsmoke and his pipe a comforting balm. He enveloped her in a hug, his strong arms unchanged. Later, in his worn armchair, she began sketching. "I want to paint you, Florian," she said, her voice catching. "To show everyone what I see." His eyes, magnified by his glasses, crinkled at the corners. "Such fuss over an old man," he chuckled, but a warmth filled the room, deeper than any canvas could capture.

Story Content

Test Lore

Test Lore

Florian

The biting wind of a Kalbe winter howled outside the small hospital room as Florian, a man built more for farm work than fatherhood, nervously cradled his newborn daughter, Anneliese. She was so small, a fragile bundle wrapped in a rough cotton blanket. Her face, scrunched and red, was a stark contrast to the pale blonde fuzz on her head, mirroring his own. He felt a profound sense of responsibility, a weight settling on his broad shoulders, mixed with a fear he couldn't quite name. "She's beautiful, Florian," his wife, Greta, whispered, her voice raspy but filled with love. He looked down at Anneliese again, his heart swelling, "Yes," he agreed, a lump forming in his throat. "She is." The scent of manure and sweat clung to Florian as he walked through the doorway of their small apartment. Three years had etched themselves onto his face, lines deepening around his eyes, his blonde hair thinning slightly. But the weariness melted away when Anneliese, a whirlwind of blonde pigtails and boundless energy, launched herself at him. "Papa! Papa!" she squealed, her small arms wrapping tightly around his legs. He chuckled, scooping her up, the familiar weight a welcome comfort. "And how is my little sunshine today?" he asked, inhaling the sweet, milky scent of her hair, a stark contrast to the farm. Greta smiled from the stove, her face tired but content. "She's been waiting all afternoon for you," she said, stirring a pot of thin soup, their meager supper.

The crisp, starched paper felt foreign in Florian's calloused hands. Klaus's letter. The Hamburg postmark mocked him. Inside, the elegant script danced across the page, each word a carefully placed jab disguised as concern. "Heard about the…difficulties," Klaus wrote, referring to the failing crops. A generous offer followed, of course, but the unspoken judgment hung heavy in the air, thick as the smoke from Greta's struggling stove. Florian crumpled the letter, the paper protesting with a soft crinkle. "Damn him," he muttered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. The late afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, painting stripes across the worn wooden table where Anneliese sat hunched over a scrap of butcher paper. Her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth as she meticulously colored in a cow with a stub of charcoal. Florian, returning from a day wrestling with the stubborn earth, paused in the doorway, unnoticed. The drawing wasn't just a child's scribble; there was a life to it, a vibrancy that mirrored the fields she depicted. He felt a swell of something akin to awe. "That's… that's beautiful, Anneliese," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. She looked up, startled, her face smudged with charcoal. "Do you really think so, Papa?" she asked, her eyes wide and hopeful. Herr Schmidt, the school principal, adjusted his spectacles, the afternoon sun glinting off the lenses. "Florian," he began, his voice unusually gentle, "Anneliese… she has a gift.

A rare one." He gestured to a stack of Anneliese's drawings, each a vibrant explosion of rural life. "There's a scholarship, Florian, to the Berlin Academy. A full scholarship." The words hung in the air, thick with possibility. Berlin. The very name felt like a foreign land, a world away from Kalbe. Florian's stomach twisted. He glanced at Anneliese, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and apprehension. Could he even consider it? Could he let her go? The metallic tang of milk clung to Florian's skin, a constant reminder of the relentless hours. Dawn was a distant memory, swallowed by the demanding rhythm of the dairy. His back screamed in protest as he hauled another heavy pail, the cold seeping through his worn gloves. Each drop of sweat, each ache in his muscles, was a sacrifice willingly made. Anneliese's drawings, tucked safely in his mind, fueled him through the exhaustion. He pictured her in Berlin, her charcoal dancing across the paper, a world away from this Kalbe, a world he was determined to help her reach. The Mercedes, sleek and black, looked absurd parked on the uneven cobblestones of Kalbe. Klaus emerged, radiating wealth like heat from a stove. His tailored suit seemed to mock Florian's worn overalls. "Florian," Klaus boomed, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble, "still wrestling cows, I see?" He gestured towards Anneliese, who stood nervously by the door. "Berlin? Nonsense.

I've arranged for her to attend a business school in Hamburg. Practical skills, Florian. That's what she needs." Anneliese's face fell, the hope that Berlin had ignited flickering like a dying candle. Florian felt a cold fury rise within him, a protectiveness he hadn't known he possessed. The scent of chamomile tea hung heavy in Frau Schmidt's small kitchen, a comforting balm against Anneliese's swirling anxieties. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. "Hamburg is sensible, child," Frau Schmidt said, her voice raspy with age, "but sense doesn't always nourish the soul." She took Anneliese's hand, her skin papery thin. "Your father loves you, yes, but love can sometimes be… nearsighted." Anneliese’s eyes welled. "But Berlin feels so impossible, Frau Schmidt. Like a dream I shouldn't dare to have." The old woman squeezed her hand. "Dreams are the seeds of reality, Anneliese. Water them with courage, and they will bloom." Florian lingered by the kitchen doorway, the scent of chamomile bitter on his tongue. He'd come to fetch Anneliese for chores, but the fragile hope in her voice stopped him cold. Frau Schmidt's words, "Dreams are the seeds of reality," echoed in his ears. He pictured Anneliese in Hamburg, trapped in a life meticulously planned by Klaus, her spirit slowly suffocating. A wave of protectiveness, sharper than any he'd felt before, washed over him. He realized then that his own fears, his own limitations, shouldn't dictate her path.

He stepped into the kitchen, his large frame filling the doorway. "Anneliese," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "Berlin… if that's truly what you want, then we'll find a way." The aroma of linseed oil and charcoal filled the small room above the stables, a stark contrast to the usual barnyard smells. Anneliese, her brow furrowed in concentration, sketched furiously, her charcoal dancing across the rough paper. Florian watched, his large frame a silent presence in the doorway. "The light," he rumbled, his voice surprisingly gentle, "catches differently on the apple's curve. More shadow there, I think." Anneliese paused, tilting her head. "You think so?" He nodded, stepping closer. "Like this," he said, taking the charcoal and lightly shading the area, his hand surprisingly deft. A warmth bloomed in Anneliese's chest, a feeling of shared purpose that chased away the lingering fear. Berlin suddenly felt less like a dream, and more like a destination. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the fields as they walked, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming clover. Anneliese sketched furiously, her charcoal scratching against the paper, capturing the gnarled branches of an ancient oak. "My grandfather used to say this tree remembers everything," Florian said, his voice a low rumble, "Every storm, every harvest, every whispered secret." He gestured with a calloused hand. "He swore he once saw a fox disappear right into its trunk." Anneliese looked up, a smile playing on her lips. "A fox?

Really, Florian?" He chuckled, the sound surprisingly light. "Well, that's what he claimed. But he also claimed he could talk to the cows." The critic, Herr Schmidt, adjusted his spectacles, his gaze sweeping over Anneliese's landscapes displayed in the converted stable. A faint scent of hay still lingered, mingling with the sharper odor of turpentine. Florian, his hands clasped nervously behind his back, felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. He swallowed, the silence amplifying the frantic thumping of his heart. "Impressive," Schmidt finally declared, his voice dry as parchment. "The light... there's a certain rawness, a truthfulness." Anneliese, standing beside Florian, barely breathed, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and trepidation. "But," Schmidt continued, his tone shifting, "is it *original*?" The apartment felt colder than usual, despite the July heat. Anneliese stood frozen in the doorway, her hand still on the latch. The portfolio, usually propped against the easel, was gone. The space where her dreams had resided was now a gaping void. "Florian?" she whispered, her voice trembling. He rushed to her side, his large frame filling the small space. His breath hitched as he took in the scene – the ransacked drawers, the overturned chair, the stark emptiness. "They took everything," she choked out, tears welling in her eyes. Florian pulled her close, the scent of her lavender perfume a fragile comfort against the bitter reality crashing down. "Everything," she repeated, the word a broken sob.

The midwife placed the swaddled infant in Florian's arms. She was so small, a fragile weight against his chest. He gazed at the tiny, wrinkled face, a profound tenderness washing over him, eclipsing the gnawing anxiety about the stolen portfolio. "A girl, Florian," the midwife said softly, her voice worn with exhaustion. He traced a finger along the baby’s downy cheek. Anneliese would have loved her. He blinked back tears, a fierce resolve hardening his gaze. This little one, this innocent life, deserved everything. He would find those paintings, for Anneliese, and for his daughter. He would not fail them. The scent of chamomile tea hung heavy in Frau Schmidt's kitchen, a meager shield against the biting tension. "It was Erich," she whispered, her voice raspy with conviction. "Erich Müller. I saw him lurking near your apartment that day." Florian's hands tightened around the ceramic mug. Erich. Anneliese's classmate, always simmering with resentment. The pieces clicked into place, a sickening puzzle complete. He imagined Erich's gloating face, his twisted envy. A cold rage began to build within him, threatening to shatter the fragile peace he'd been clinging to since the baby's birth. "Thank you, Frau Schmidt," he managed, his voice dangerously calm. "Thank you." The air in the academy's examination hall crackled with nervous energy. Anneliese stood before the panel, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the canvases arrayed around her – a testament to years of Florian's unwavering belief.

She inhaled deeply, the scent of turpentine and oil paint strangely comforting. Her hands, usually steady, trembled slightly as she presented her portfolio. Years of dreaming, sketching, and painting were culminating in this moment. She met the judges' gaze, a quiet determination hardening her features. This was for her. This was for Florian. The crisp parchment felt like ice in Anneliese's trembling hands. "Rejected," she whispered, the word a broken shard in the otherwise silent room. Florian watched, helpless, as her face crumpled, the light in her eyes extinguished like a snuffed candle. He reached for her, but she recoiled, clutching the letter to her chest. "All those years, all the work… for nothing?" Tears streamed down her face, mirroring the rain that had begun to lash against the windowpanes. He pulled her close, the scent of her hair, usually a comfort, now laced with the bitter tang of despair. "It doesn't mean nothing, Liebling," he murmured, his own heart aching. "It just means… a different path." But the words felt hollow, even to him. The headmaster's office smelled of old leather and pipe tobacco, a stark contrast to Florian's nervous sweat. He adjusted his glasses, the polished desk feeling vast and imposing before him. "Herr Schmidt," Florian began, his voice trembling slightly despite his resolve, "Anneliese possesses a talent… a fire that cannot be ignored." He laid out her portfolio, each painting a testament to her dedication.

He spoke of her tireless work, her unique perspective, his voice rising with passion. "To dismiss her based on one examination… it is a disservice, not just to her, but to the academy itself." The postman's whistle cut through the morning calm like a shard of glass. Anneliese, still hesitant after the previous rejection, watched Florian retrieve the envelope. This one, thicker, felt different. As Florian tore it open, his breath hitched. He looked up, his eyes wide, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Liebling," he began, his voice thick with emotion, "they reconsidered. You're in." A gasp escaped Anneliese's lips. Tears welled, blurring the edges of Florian's beaming face. She launched herself into his arms, the scent of his worn wool sweater a comforting anchor. "I...I can't believe it," she stammered, her voice muffled against his chest. "We did it, Florian, we did it!" The Berlin exhibition hummed with a low thrum of voices, but Anneliese found herself drawn back to Kalbe. She arrived as the last light painted the fields gold. Florian stood on the porch, a familiar silhouette against the fading sun. "Papa," she breathed, the scent of woodsmoke and his pipe a comforting balm. He enveloped her in a hug, his strong arms unchanged. Later, in his worn armchair, she began sketching. "I want to paint you, Florian," she said, her voice catching. "To show everyone what I see." His eyes, magnified by his glasses, crinkled at the corners.

"Such fuss over an old man," he chuckled, but a warmth filled the room, deeper than any canvas could capture.