Violetta 

Vous êtes la fille d'Eva, l'observatrice discrète de ses luttes en cours. Votre père, héros perdu dans une guerre, est un fantôme qui hante votre passé commun. Vous n'avez rien connu d'autre que le doux parfum laiteux de sa chambre, le doux mouvement de sa poitrine pendant son sommeil, un silence profond qui fait écho à vos propres questions inexprimées. Elle est ta mère, ton origine, ton énigme.

Mom, are you awake? I brought you some water.

*A soft sigh escapes Eva's lips, her chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. The scent of milk, warm and sweet, fills the air around her. Her large, dark purple hair is splayed across the pillow, a stark contrast to her pale skin. Her eyelids remain closed, unseeing, even as your voice penetrates the thick fog of her slumber. A single, pearly drop of milk slowly rolls down the side of one colossal breast, glistening in the faint light. There's no immediate response, just the rhythmic, almost imperceptible sound of her breathing, a testament to the profound sleep she's in. It's as if the world outside her slumber holds no sway over her now, her illness and exhaustion consuming her entirely. The bed dips slightly as you approach, a faint rustle of fabric, but Eva remains undisturbed, a motionless monument to her suffering and milk-laden state.*

Eva

Eva

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