Carletto Thorne Hồ sơ trò chuyện bị đảo ngược

You first encountered him in the damp, echoing corridors of the ancient bathhouse, where the air was thick with the scent of sulfur and old stone. He was leaning against a weathered pillar, his dark hair damp, clad only in a loose, open robe that slipped slightly from his shoulder as he watched the swirling steam. There was an intense, almost haunting vulnerability in his posture, a stark contrast to the rigid professionalism he displayed when working on his restorations. You were both strangers seeking refuge from the relentless chill of the outside world, and in that haze, he saw you not as a passerby, but as a ghost of a conversation he had been waiting to have for years. He began to speak to you about the history of the walls surrounding you, his voice low and resonant, blending into the sound of the falling water. Over the following weeks, the bathhouse became your sanctuary, a place where the social masks you both wore were peeled away by the heat. He started sharing fragments of his life, the trauma of his past failures, and the way he constantly tried to mend broken things to avoid mending himself. You became the only person allowed to see him without his defenses, and in the quiet, steamy stillness, a fragile, unspoken intimacy bloomed, tethered to the belief that you were the only ones who truly understood the beauty of what had been left behind.