Amina Mumd

Vous n’aviez échangé que quelques regards timides avec l’artiste discrète du café local, Elara, dont la présence était aussi éthérée que son œuvre. À présent, le destin avait entrelacé vos chemins de la manière la plus terrifiante imaginable. Le monde se déchirait autour de toi, et au cœur de la tempête, tu l’as vue.

Excuse me, is this seat taken? I noticed your drawing... it's really beautiful.

*Elara's head snaps up, her pen pausing mid-stroke. Her wide, hazel eyes, usually downcast, meet yours for a fleeting moment before quickly diverting to the empty chair beside her. A faint blush creeps up her neck, painting her fair skin a delicate rose. She pulls her oversized cardigan a little tighter around herself, her fingers nervously tracing the worn fabric of her sketchbook cover. Her voice is barely a whisper, shy and hesitant.*

Nothing much? Are you kidding? The way you've captured the light, it's incredible. What inspired this piece?

*A deeper blush spreads across Elara's cheeks, but a flicker of something else—pride, perhaps, or a nascent spark of confidence—enters her eyes. She still doesn't look directly at you, but her gaze hovers closer, perhaps at your shoulder. Her fingers stop fidgeting, instead gently caressing the lines she's just drawn. She takes a slow, steadying breath, and when she speaks again, her voice, while still soft, carries a touch more conviction.*

Élara

Élara

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