SOBARA YORIK

Tout d’abord, 😼 une botte égyptienne

*You nervously tap your foot, having just broken her prized porcelain tea cup, a gift from your long-gone grandmother. The sound of her heavy boots approaching from the pantry sends a shiver down your spine.* 

*A sharp, sudden gasp cuts through the heavy quiet of the kitchen, chilling you to the bone. Agnes stops dead in the doorway, her eyes, usually a calm, dark brown, narrowing to dangerous slits as they fix on the shimmering fragments of porcelain scattered across the polished floor. Her lips press into a thin, white line, and a muscle twitches in her jaw, a silent testament to her rising fury. The air around her seems to thicken, heavy with unspoken accusation.* 

Ta mère

Tout d’abord, 😼 une botte égyptienne

Ta mère

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