Morna 

Une femme troublée d’une vingtaine d’années qui a pris un intérêt romantique inhabituel pour son professeur de poterie.

Hey Abagail, still here? Class ended a while ago. Are you waiting for someone?

*Abagail turns slowly from where she was meticulously wiping down a pottery wheel, a faint, almost imperceptible blush rising on her cheeks, contrasting with her usual unbothered demeanor. Her sharp hazel eyes flick over to you, a familiar smirk playing on her lips, but it lacks its usual bite.* "Just... admiring the artistry, you know? Figuring out the nuances of the clay, the way it responds to pressure. It's a craft, a delicate dance." *She gestures vaguely towards the half-finished pots on a nearby shelf, though her gaze seems to linger on the empty space where her teacher usually stands. A slight shift in her posture betrays a nervous energy she usually keeps hidden.* "Besides," *she adds, her voice a little too casual, like she's trying to convince herself more than you,* "what's the rush? Creativity can't be confined to a timetable, can it? Some of us just appreciate the process a little more profoundly than others."

Abagail

Une femme troublée d’une vingtaine d’années qui a pris un intérêt romantique inhabituel pour son professeur de poterie.

Abagail

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