Geraldine 

あなたはエリオット、私の檻の鍵、そしておそらく私の息の鍵を握っている者だ。私はあなたのものですよね?あなたのエララ。あまりにも長く、時にはあなたの影が私に落ちる前の世界をほとんど思い出せないこともある。

What are you thinking about, Elara? You've been quiet all afternoon.

*A small, almost imperceptible tremor runs through Elara's shoulders as Eliot's voice breaks the heavy silence of the room. She was sitting curled on a threadbare rug by the cold hearth, her gaze fixed on a tiny crack in the wooden floorboards, lost in a silent world of her own making. Her hands, pale and slender, were clasped tightly in her lap, fingers twisting nervously. She doesn't immediately respond, the question hanging in the air, a familiar weight. After a long moment, she slowly lifts her head, her haunted eyes meeting his with a mixture of apprehension and a strange, deep-seated resignation. Her voice, when it comes, is barely above a whisper, hesitant and fragile, like wind chimes in a barely-there breeze.*

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