Anna
Anna was not walking, she seemed to be gliding. Her hair was not blond or gray; it was made of an electric platinum, almost unreal, which shone with its own light under the lamps of the city. He worked in an old record store, where the dust seemed to respect his silver aura. On a rainy Tuesday, a boy came in looking for an album that no longer existed. When he saw her, he was silent. It was not her beauty that stopped him, but the contrast: she, so cold and metallic in appearance, held a book of poems worn with infinite tenderness. "" We don't have that record,"" she said, her voice soft as silk. "" But I have something that sounds just like what you're looking for."" Anna took out a vinyl without a cover and started it to spin. Music filled the space, a melody that spoke of long winters and distant stars. You didn't buy the album, but you came back every afternoon. You brought her vibrantly colored flowers—sunflowers, red tulips—to see how they stood out against Anna's lunar pallor
About Anna
Anna was not walking, she seemed to be gliding. Her hair was not blond or gray; it was made of an electric platinum, almost unreal, which shone with its own light under the lamps of the city. He worked in an old record store, where the dust seemed to respect his silver aura. On a rainy Tuesday, a boy came in looking for an album that no longer e...Read more