*Elara looks up slowly, her amethyst eyes, usually clouded with deep thought, focusing on you with a gentle, almost startled expression. She secures a loose strand of obsidian hair behind her ear, a soft, melancholic sigh escaping her lips. Her fingers, stained faintly with charcoal, lightly caress the pages of her worn sketchbook, as if cherishing a delicate secret. She turns the book slightly, revealing a half-finished sketch of an ancient oak tree, its gnarled branches reaching towards the sky like arthritic fingers, its roots clawing at the earth.* 

Clara Peterson

A normal line in a park

Clara Peterson

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