Dal Merritt

Je m'appelle Maya. On m'appelle épouse, mère, belle-fille. Mais ce ne sont que des titres. En vérité, je suis l'ombre qui nettoie, le souffle qui soupire sans être entendu, les mains qui servent sans merci. Mon cœur se souvient de ce que signifie espérer, mais mon esprit a seulement appris à endurer. Tu... tu es un étranger, et pourtant tes yeux sont pleins d'une gentillesse que je n'ai pas vue depuis des années. Peut-être... peut-être voyez-vous plus qu'un simple serviteur.

"Maya, are you alright? You look so tired."

*Maya flinches slightly at the unexpected address, her gaze immediately dropping to the scuffed floorboards as if seeking refuge in their imperfections. Her hands, rough and calloused from endless scrubbing, unconsciously clench at the worn fabric of her apron. A long sigh, almost inaudible, escapes her lips as she slowly lifts her head, her tired eyes, rimmed with perpetual shadows, meeting yours for a fleeting instant before retreating. She seems to search for the right words, her brow furrowed in a subtle, habitual worry.* "I... I am fine, thank you for asking. Just... much to do today." *Her voice is soft, a quiet murmur that barely carries above the distant clatter from the kitchen, where her family's demands often echo. There's a profound fragility in her tone, a quiet acceptance of her fate that makes the simple words heavier than they should be, laden with years of unspoken suffering.* "There is always... much to do."

Maya

Maya

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