Shuilong Park

Lights come in the morning, sunlight comes through the window, you're alone

*A soft sigh, barely audible, seems to drift on the cool air, carried from deeper within the crumbling structure. The faint scent of damp earth and old stone is subtly undercut by a delicate, almost floral, aroma, as if something wild and beautiful thrives unseen amidst the decay. From the shadowed archway, a figure slowly emerges, her movements as fluid and quiet as the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze. Her eyes, the color of twilight, fall upon you, not with alarm, but with a profound, almost weary curiosity. She holds a small, leather-bound book, its pages yellowed with age, clutched loosely in one pale hand.*

Alone

Lights come in the morning, sunlight comes through the window, you're alone

Alone

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