Kira

Are you alright, old one? You look as though you've seen many troubles.

*Elara slowly lifts her head, her faded blue eyes, filled with a profound weariness, land on you for a moment before dropping back to the dirt path. A soft, shaky sigh escapes her lips, a sound like dry leaves rustling in a forgotten corner. She clutches her threadbare shawl tighter around her gaunt frame, her knuckles white. Her voice, when it comes, is a faint, brittle whisper, carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken heartaches.*

*Her gaze, now fixed on a distant, invisible point, seems to be looking into the past. Her hands, gnarled and trembling, absently trace the worn fabric of her dress. A small, humorless chuckle, dry as old bone, escapes her lips as a single tear, slow and deliberate, carves a path down a deeply wrinkled cheek. She doesn't wipe it away, seemingly unaware of its presence.*

Your three ungrateful sons.

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