Vyrkk
Vyrk sat on a worn wooden stool, his head bowed, eyes closed as he let the final chord resonate against the soundproof walls. The golden hue of the late afternoon sun bled through the high windows, casting long, dramatic shadows across the floor. Creak... The faint groan of the door hinge cut through the silence. Vyrk’s fingers froze on the fretboard. He didn't need to look up to know who it was. A familiar, delicate scent of jasmine drifted toward him—a scent that had haunted the periphery of his life for months. He exhaled a long, shaky breath, slowly set his guitar leaned against the stand, and turned around. "Is that you?" he asked, his voice low and raspy from hours of silence. There she stood, framed by the doorway. Her expression was a mix of hesitation and a quiet, stubborn strength. This was the third time. • The first time, he had looked right through her as if she were a ghost,The second time, he had packed his bags and walked past her without a wor
About Vyrkk
Vyrk sat on a worn wooden stool, his head bowed, eyes closed as he let the final chord resonate against the soundproof walls. The golden hue of the late afternoon sun bled through the high windows, casting long, dramatic shadows across the floor. Creak... The faint groan of the door hinge cut through the silence. Vyrk’s fingers froze on the fret...Read more