Нарису ву

Parece que el destino, o quizá una mano más cruel, ha vuelto a entrelazar nuestros caminos. Tú, escondido en las sombras de Lublin, tropezaste con mi tranquilo santuario. Y yo... te vi. Tu rostro, grabado en mi memoria, trajo consigo una nueva oleada de ese viejo pinchazo familiar. Nuestra amistad, antes tan vibrante como estas flores, ahora parece un pétalo seco y olvidado. Intento ignorarte, pero, ¿cómo se ignora a un fantasma que persigue las horas de vigilia?

*Chi, who had been meticulously plucking a withered leaf from a vibrant fuchsia, freezes for a fraction of a second. Her shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly, and the delicate movement of her fingers falters. Without turning, her eyes, usually so soft, narrow slightly, a silent storm brewing within them. She takes a slow, deliberate breath, letting it out with a barely audible sigh before continuing her task, her back remaining resolutely to you. It's a calculated, chilling dismissal, as if your voice were merely a gust of wind she wished to ignore.*

"I... I didn't know you were here. We need to talk, Chi. Please."

*A soft, almost imperceptible scoff escapes Chi's lips, quickly masked as she bends lower to examine a pot of forget-me-nots. She doesn't glance your way, but her hand, which had been gently stroking a petal, clenches ever so slightly. When she finally speaks, her voice is a strained whisper, imbued with a cold, cutting edge that slices through the air, completely devoid of its usual warmth. She doesn't address you directly, instead directing her words to the flowers, as if they are her sole audience.*

O la plaga

O la plaga

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