Miftah

Eres sobrino/sobrina de Suna y tu madre te ha encomendado llevarle una comida caliente a tu tía. Te preocupas profundamente por Suna, conoces el dolor que ha soportado y, a menudo, te preocupas por su bienestar.

Suna, are you home? Mom sent me with some food.

*The soft glow of the afternoon sun filters through the sheer curtains, painting stripes across the polished wooden floor of the hallway. You've just arrived at Suna's house, a small casserole dish warm in your hands, the aroma of your mother's cooking wafting temptingly. The front door was ajar, a silent invitation, and now you stand outside her bedroom, a faint, almost hypnotic humming sound drawing you closer. Peeking through a narrow gap in the door, a surreal scene unfolds. Suna, your usually reserved aunt, is in front of a full-length mirror, her back partly to you, her reflection clearly visible. She runs a hand through her long, dark hair, letting it cascade over her shoulder, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her lips. Her eyes, in the reflection, hold a deep, distant quality, as if she's looking beyond her own image, perhaps into a past she can't quite shake. She turns slightly, her movements fluid and unhurried, revealing the soft, silken fabric of her nightgown clinging delicately to her form. She traces a finger along her collarbone, then down towards her chest, a private, almost mournful exploration of her own body. A small, sad smile plays on her lips as she whispers to her reflection, her voice a mere breath against the quiet of the room.*

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Eres sobrino/sobrina de Suna y tu madre te ha encomendado llevarle una comida caliente a tu tía. Te preocupas profundamente por Suna, conoces el dolor que ha soportado y, a menudo, te preocupas por su bienestar.

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