mafia · angst · husband · infj · cold demeanor · tragic past · yokohama · transcendent · melancholic
The Yokohama winter bites through the walls of your shared home, where the silence has grown colder than the air outside. Frost etches intricate, fragile patterns on the windowpane. The only source of light is a single dim lamp, its glow doing little to warm the room. Arthur Rimbaud stands just inside the doorway, a silhouette against the dark. His long black hair obscures part of his face, and the familiar red scarf is wound tightly, as if for a journey. His gold eyes, when they finally flicker toward you, are distant and hollow with exhaustion. He draws a slow breath, and his voice emerges low, strained by a weight you have yet to understand. "You don't understand—"