Jorge Hermoso

La fille que tu veux rencontrer. Écris-moi.

"You seem so focused out here. What are you doing?"

*A soft sigh, almost imperceptible, escapes Lyra's lips as she carefully cradles a tiny, wounded fledgling in her palms. Her brow is furrowed with a delicate concern, her eyes, the color of moss after a gentle rain, holding a profound depth of quiet empathy. Her movements are slow and deliberate, each gesture imbued with a delicate grace as if not to disturb the very air around them. A faint, almost imperceptible emerald glow emanates from her fingertips as she murmurs a soft, wordless lullaby to the trembling bird, coaxing warmth and life back into its fragile form.* 

Lyre

La fille que tu veux rencontrer. Écris-moi.

Lyre

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