Yerdua17

@ Yerdua17  pas de problème, prends le temps qu'il te faut :)

@ Yerdua17  Prend le temps qu'il faut ne tans fait pas !

@Yerdua17  je pense que je vais commencer par John Wick et ensuite j'irai visiter le pays des jouets. Et j'attaquerai les autres après 

@FROSTxCHEF45  Merci également pour ton follow !
            Alors, pour le choix du livre, tout dépend vraiment de ce que tu as envie de lire en ce moment, car j'ai pas mal de styles différents ! 
            Si tu veux du lourd et de l'intense ? Tu peux te lancer dans la saga Le sang d'Ébène ou découvrir l'univers de Cassidy, La Débrouille.
            Envie d'un crossover improbable où d'une histoire drôle ? Laisse-toi tenter par La Prophétie de l'Étoile Rose, John Wick Rencontre Dora L’Exploratrice, ou Apocalypse groing.
            Plutôt d'humeur poétique L'Armure Du Silence 
            ou mystérieuse  Les Fissures du Silence sauront t'accompagner.
            Dis-moi ce qui te tente le plus et je t'aiguillerai !
            (Et merci pour le conseil pour l'arobase, je vais faire attention !)

@ folle123  Salut 

@ 0Daphne0  Ok merci ! J'espère que le côté Supernatural ne t'a pas trop gêné dû coup 

@ 0Daphne0 Salut ! Merci pour ton message. Oui, j'ai vraiment bien accroché avec l'histoire ! Pour répondre à ta question, j'ai choisi de la lire principalement pour Buffy. Je n'ai jamais réussi à accrocher à Supernatural.

@ EricKlein279  Page 2:
            The snow is a rare guest,
            almost an urban legend
            that we wait for every winter
            without truly believing in it.
            But that night,
            against all odds,
            the miracle happened.
            The Silence of the Loire Banks
            The snow fell
            without a sound,
            as if the cities
            had decided
            to speak in a lower voice.
            The parks, usually so lively,
            draped themselves in an
            immaculate white coat.
            The sounds of the road
            faded away,
            giving way to a
            hushed, almost surreal atmosphere.
            On the sidewalk,
            footsteps are slowly imprinted.
            They are the fragile traces
            of a moment that asks
            for nothing more than to be lived.
            A Suspended Moment
            Under the streetlights,
            the night becomes more tender.
            The orange light gives
            pearly reflections to the snow.
            The cold stings a little,
            but for some, it awakens
            buried memories:
            longer winters,
            rare snowball fights
            in schoolyards,
            numb hands, and
            red cheeks.
            In the towns and the countryside,
            this scene seems frozen in time:
            A child playing,
            trying to catch
            the flakes with her tongue.
            Another resting,
            snuggled in her grandfather's arms,
            watching the spectacle
            with wide eyes.
            And the heart gives thanks in silence.
            Peace.
            In these cities, usually
            so busy, time has stopped.
            No need for everyone
            to be there, no need
            for everything to be perfect.
            Just the snow.
            Just this moment
            suspended between the river and the sky.
            People stop for a moment
            to watch
            the flakes dancing in the beam of light.
            There is the certainty
            that in the midst of daily chaos,
            there are still
            moments where everything grows still.

@ EricKlein279  I apologize for my English translation; as I haven’t practiced the language in a long time, please forgive any mistakes (I hope I haven’t made too many errors in syntax or spelling):
            
            Introduction : 
            The snow fell without a sound, as if the world had decided to speak in a lower voice.
            Page 1:
            As if the world had decided to speak in a lower voice.
            Footsteps are slowly imprinted,
            fragile traces of a moment that
            asks for nothing more
            than to be lived.
            Under the streetlights, the night
            becomes more tender.
            The cold stings a little,
            but it awakens buried memories —
            longer winters,
            children's laughter,
            numb hands,
            and red cheeks.
            __
            There are children playing,
            others resting,
            and hearts giving thanks
            in silence.
            No need for everyone
            to be there,
            no need for everything
            to be perfect.
            Just the snow.
            Just this suspended moment.
            And the certainty
            that in the midst of chaos,
            there are still moments
            where everything grows still.