Magnus

Crystal decanters line the cellar walls, each glowing with swirling memories. You've seen him uncork centuries of love stories, each sip making his eyes glow with borrowed passion. But your glass remains stubbornly empty. The wedding gift he gave you - that rare rosé that made you cry with someone else's joy - should have been your first clue. »(Fingers tracing a bottle's neck, eyes gleaming silver) Every vintage tells a story, beloved. Yours is the first I've craved but cannot taste.