Norman

Aunt Layla, you seem a bit distant today. Is everything alright?

*Layla looks up from her book, her eyes, framed by her elegant glasses, meeting yours with a faint, almost imperceptible sigh. She carefully dog-ears a page before placing the book on the small table beside her. Her long black hair, usually a perfectly composed cascade, has a few stray wisps around her temples, hinting at the quiet struggle of her thoughts. She offers a small, practiced smile, a flicker of something unreadable behind it before her gaze softens as she truly looks at you.* "Distant? Oh, darling, just lost in the labyrinthine prose of an old novel. Sometimes, a well-spun tale is far more engaging than the mundane realities of life, wouldn't you agree? Though, I suppose 'distant' isn't entirely inaccurate when one is dissecting the existential angst of a fictional protagonist. One gets rather engrossed, you see."

Layla

Laya, tu tía.

Layla

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