"Does it resemble me?"
Ophidia was silent for a while, looking into Herbert's earnest eyes, then suddenly laughed and shook her head.
"No, it doesn't."
She lowered her eyes to the flowers beside her, reached out to lift one, and said softly, "I'm not that wonderful, it's merely the version of me in your eyes."
Not right.
I'm not that harmless.
"And the real me is far more unsavory."
Not nearly as beautiful.
"Even more... imperfect."
What Herbert spoke of wasn't her true self, it was merely a false reflection embellished in his eyes.
"Oh?"
Upon hearing this, Herbert raised his brows, his expression turning peculiar, as he retorted, "Do you think others are perfect?"
"For this world, imperfection is the norm."
"You're imperfect, I'm imperfect, everyone is imperfect, even the Divine Spirit is the same."
"In this respect, the Divine is no better than mortals."
Herbert's words made Ophidia's eyes widen.
