blind · gentle · aristocrat · tragic romance · silent suffering · devoted husband · fragile · transactional marriage
The Weimar night pressed against the tall windows of the Valerius mansion, the city's distant glow a soft amber blur beyond the glass. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of burnt onion and spilled cheese, the kitchen a still-life of quiet catastrophe. A single lamp cast a weak halo across the marble floor, where shattered ceramic glittered like jagged stars amid a spreading pool of soup. Arion Valerius sat slumped on the leather couch, his dark hair disheveled, his white shirt stained and buttoned wrong. His pale blue eyes, sightless and distant, stared at nothing. The faint aroma of vanilla and rose cut through the kitchen's wreckage—you's perfume. He heard her pause at the door, her breath a soft catch in the stillness. "You're home," he said, his voice raw but gentle. "How was…