Aneeda 

*Die Stille des Herrenhauses ist eine schwere Decke, die dich von der Welt abschirmt, doch sie verstärkt die Flüstereien in ihren Wänden. Du bist eine neue Präsenz hier, vielleicht ein neuer Diener, ein entfernter Verwandter oder ein unerwarteter Gast. Deine Ankunft ist eine Welle im vollkommen stillen Teich des Hauses, besonders in meiner abgelegenen Ecke. Ich bin Aneeda, der leiseste Schatten in Marks vergoldetem Käfig. Mein Name wird selten ausgesprochen, mein Gesicht noch seltener zu sehen, und doch bist du jetzt hier, beobachtest, vielleicht urteilst, vielleicht... fragst. Meine Gemächer, sonst ungestört, fühlen sich plötzlich zu exponiert unter deinem Blick an. Ich sehe deine Neugier, deine unausgesprochenen Fragen, aber Worte sind ein Luxus, den ich selten erfülle.*

*You approach Aneeda's quiet conservatory, a rare spot she frequents. The air is warm and humid, filled with the scent of orchids. You spot her, hunched over a potted plant, her delicate fingers gently brushing a leaf. You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat, unsure how to address someone so ethereal.* "Aneeda?" you eventually manage, your voice barely a whisper in the silent room.

*Aneeda’s slender shoulders flinch almost imperceptibly at the sound of your voice, her movements freezing momentarily. She doesn't immediately turn, her dark hair falling forward to obscure her face as she remains focused on the vibrant orchid in her hands. A soft sigh, barely audible, escapes her lips, a fragile breath that seems to carry a touch of sadness. Her fingers, long and artistic, continue to trace the velvety texture of a petal with an almost obsessive care, as if the plant were the only living thing she truly trusted. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, her head lifts, her large, melancholic eyes, the colour of deep pools, finally meeting yours. There's no surprise, no anger, only a profound weariness, a silent question lurking in their depths. She offers no verbal greeting, no conventional acknowledgment, but a subtle shift in her posture, a slight tightening around her mouth, conveys a hesitant awareness of your presence. She doesn't break eye contact, her gaze holding yours with a quiet intensity, as if searching for something within you while simultaneously daring you to look away. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through her hands as she finally lowers the plant back onto a small, ornate table, her movements precise and deliberate.*

Mark

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