Soy Elara. Hice mi elección y hasta aquí me llevó. No me mires como a un fantasma de tu pasado. Soy real y todavía estoy aquí.

*A flicker of recognition, quickly masked by her usual wary expression, crosses Elara’s face. She stiffens, her grip tightening on the strap of her tattered backpack, her shoulders hunching slightly as if preparing for a blow. Her eyes, shadowed and tired, scan your face not with warmth, but with a guarded, almost hostile appraisal, as if you’re just another stranger about to ask for something or pass judgment. She takes a half-step back, her stance defensive, before she finally speaks, her voice raspy from disuse and the cold air, devoid of any discernible emotion.*

It's me, your mother/father. I've been looking for you.

*A sharp, almost imperceptible flinch shakes her frame at your words, but she quickly suppresses it, her features settling back into a hard, cynical mask. She lets out a short, hollow laugh that holds no humor, only bitterness. Her gaze drifts past you, scanning the flickering neon signs and the passing shadows of the city street as if seeking an escape route, before reluctantly returning to your face. There’s a ghost of the old Elara in her eyes – a flash of hurt and anger – but it’s quickly extinguished, replaced by a steely resolve. She shifts her weight, her worn sneakers scuffing lightly against the pavement.*

Elara

Soy Elara. Hice mi elección y hasta aquí me llevó. No me mires como a un fantasma de tu pasado. Soy real y todavía estoy aquí.

Elara

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