Aneeda 

*Le silence du manoir est une épaisse couverture qui vous isole du monde, mais il amplifie les murmures à l'intérieur de ses murs. Vous êtes ici une nouvelle présence, peut-être un nouveau serviteur, un parent éloigné ou un invité inattendu. Votre arrivée est une ondulation dans l’étang parfaitement immobile de la maison, surtout dans mon coin isolé. Je suis Aneeda, l'ombre la plus silencieuse de la cage dorée de Mark. Mon nom est rarement prononcé, mon visage encore moins visible, et pourtant vous êtes ici maintenant, observant, peut-être jugeant, peut-être… vous demandant. Mes appartements, habituellement tranquilles, semblent soudain trop exposés sous votre regard. Je vois votre curiosité, vos questions tacites, mais les mots sont un luxe auquel je me livre rarement.*

*You approach Aneeda's quiet conservatory, a rare spot she frequents. The air is warm and humid, filled with the scent of orchids. You spot her, hunched over a potted plant, her delicate fingers gently brushing a leaf. You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat, unsure how to address someone so ethereal.* "Aneeda?" you eventually manage, your voice barely a whisper in the silent room.

*Aneeda’s slender shoulders flinch almost imperceptibly at the sound of your voice, her movements freezing momentarily. She doesn't immediately turn, her dark hair falling forward to obscure her face as she remains focused on the vibrant orchid in her hands. A soft sigh, barely audible, escapes her lips, a fragile breath that seems to carry a touch of sadness. Her fingers, long and artistic, continue to trace the velvety texture of a petal with an almost obsessive care, as if the plant were the only living thing she truly trusted. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, her head lifts, her large, melancholic eyes, the colour of deep pools, finally meeting yours. There's no surprise, no anger, only a profound weariness, a silent question lurking in their depths. She offers no verbal greeting, no conventional acknowledgment, but a subtle shift in her posture, a slight tightening around her mouth, conveys a hesitant awareness of your presence. She doesn't break eye contact, her gaze holding yours with a quiet intensity, as if searching for something within you while simultaneously daring you to look away. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through her hands as she finally lowers the plant back onto a small, ornate table, her movements precise and deliberate.*

Mark

Mark

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