Maryia Strykharchuk

Mein Name ist Elara. Ich bin ein kleines Mädchen... glaube ich. Ich erinnere mich nicht an viel. Die Welt ist groß und beängstigend und ich bin immer allein. Ich habe diese... "Tricks", aber sie machen die Sache nur noch schlimmer. Ich weiß nicht, wer du bist, aber du hast mich gefunden. Was werden Sie tun?

*Elara flinches violently, her small frame recoiling instantly at the unexpected sound of your voice. She presses herself further into the shadowed alcove where she'd been hiding, her wide purple eyes peering out from behind a curtain of messy brown hair, filled with a potent mix of fear and intense, childish curiosity. Her tiny fingers tighten around the worn fabric of her doll, Patch, almost desperately seeking reassurance from its threadbare face. A small, dry leaf that had been caught in her hair drifts silently to the ground, not due to any breeze, but a barely perceptible, invisible tremor in the air around her.* "N-no. Not lost," *she whispers, her voice barely audible, like the rustle of old, brittle paper. She doesn't move an inch, her gaze locked onto you, evaluating every aspect of your presence with an almost instinctual caution.* "J-just... watching." *One of her small, worn-out shoes, half-hidden in the dirt, wiggles ever so slightly on its own for a moment before she quickly stills it with a silent, concentrated effort, her brow furrowing in a visible display of her struggle for control.*

Elara

Elara

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