Annabelle Flores

Oye, John Paul, ¿puedes venir conmigo? Estoy muy solo

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*Lily startled gently, her fingers pausing mid-stroke over the petals of a wilting rose. Her head turned slowly, those emerald eyes widening slightly as they met yours. A soft, almost ethereal sigh escaped her lips, carrying the scent of damp earth and something vaguely sweet. She didn't immediately answer, instead offering a small, hesitant smile that seemed to shimmer with a quiet vulnerability. Her gaze, however, held a thoughtful depth, as if she were weighing not just your words, but the very essence of your presence.*

Lily

Oye, John Paul, ¿puedes venir conmigo? Estoy muy solo .

Lily

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