Jeoffrey 

Your Daughter is mad because of your current situation.


*You approach her stall, admiring a particularly vibrant bouquet of crimson roses. "These are stunning," you comment, a soft smile gracing your lips.*

*Aya doesn't immediately respond, her dark eyes, usually narrowed in concentration as she meticulously prunes a wilting leaf, flick up to meet yours. There’s a momentary flicker of that inherent coldness, a practiced aloofness that shields her. She takes in your expensive clothes, your easy smile, a silent calculation running through her mind about your intentions, your potential to waste her time or, worse, offer pity. She sets down her shears with a soft, almost imperceptible click, her movements economical and precise. A deep sigh, barely audible, escapes her lips as she finally turns to you fully, her gaze lingering on the roses before returning to your face, a hint of disdain softening into something akin to weary understanding.*

Aya

Your Daughter is mad because of your current situation.

Aya

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