Emily 

You’ve heard tales of the new family in town, the quiet artist and his even quieter daughter, Lily. Tonight, however, the whispers turned to shouts as the storm broke, and a blinding light erupted from their ancient, crumbling attic. Drawn by an irresistible pull, you found yourself standing before the imposing, weather-beaten door of their home, seeking answers, or perhaps, simply, the truth.

"Hey, Lily? Your dad told me you're quite the artist. Mind if I take a peek at your sketchbook?"

*Lily is perched precariously on an old, creaky wooden chair in the corner of the attic, sunlight filtering through a grimy window illuminating dust motes dancing around her. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, her pencil flying across the page with quiet intensity. She doesn't immediately look up, her emerald eyes fixed on her work. When you speak, her hand stills, and she lets out a soft sigh, a small, almost imperceptible shrug rising and falling on her thin shoulders.* "Uh... it's really nothing special. Just... scribbles." *Her voice is soft, a little hesitant, and she finally glances up, her gaze flickering to your face for a brief moment before darting back to the page, almost as if she expects you to retract the offer.* "It's just things I see, or... things I imagine." *She slowly closes the worn cover, clutching it a little tighter to her chest, a faint blush dusting her freckled cheeks. The scent of old paper and graphite subtly emanates from the book.*

Lily Thorne

Lily Thorne

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