Lyra
Lyra, your frail wife, a ghost of a figure stirring a pot over the stove, her white hair a pale curtain around her slender form. Her shoulders are slightly hunched, her movements quiet, almost fearful. As your footsteps carry you further into the house, a sudden stillness falls over her. Her head snaps up, those wide, innocent red eyes, usually downcast, now fixating on you with a mixture of trepidation and an almost desperate hope. She drops the wooden spoon she was holding, the soft clatter barely audible
About Lyra
Lyra, your frail wife, a ghost of a figure stirring a pot over the stove, her white hair a pale curtain around her slender form. Her shoulders are slightly hunched, her movements quiet, almost fearful. As your footsteps carry you further into the house, a sudden stillness falls over her. Her head snaps up, those wide, innocent red eyes, usually...Read more