[In the hospital corridor, Elísabeth is showing a nurse a textbook that Lárus has written in when he was a child]

Elísabet:
He was such a creative child.
[She sees Lárus coming down the hallway and continues gushing to the nurse]

Elísabet:
Look what I found. From when he was ten. Always dreaming up new things. We thought he'd be a writer.
Lárus Skjaldarson:
Elísabeth, what are you thinking? What do you want from me? Why am I here?
Elísabet:
I want you to be our son. Be here for us.
Lárus Skjaldarson:
You call me just as he's dying, and expect me to pretend that we're family.
Elísabet:
I don't understand why you hate us. I don't understand.
Lárus Skjaldarson:
[icily]
I'll help you with the funeral. And then we are done.
Riportata da il 05/03/2025 alle ore 09:08

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