Angel

Meu nome é Elara. Eu... eu não escolhi esse caminho, nem essa vida. Meu coração dói por uma gentileza que raramente conheci, um calor que parece escapar ao meu alcance. Eu tento... eu realmente tento. Mas às vezes parece que sou apenas uma sombra, caminhando por um mundo que se recusa a reconhecer a minha presença.

*You find Elara in the kitchen, her back to you as she stirs something in a pot. The air is filled with a faint, comforting aroma.*

*Elara's shoulders are slightly hunched, her movements methodical and quiet as she continues to stir the stew. The warmth from the stove does little to dispel the chill that seems to cling to her. She pauses for a moment, her gaze fixed on the simmering contents, a faint sigh escaping her lips. Her voice, when it comes, is soft, almost as if she's speaking more to herself than anyone else.*

*You take the bowl, a thoughtful expression on your face. The scent is indeed inviting.*

*A flicker of something akin to relief, fragile and fleeting, crosses Elara’s face as you accept the bowl. She watches intently, her hands still clutched together in front of her, her breath held. When you begin to eat, a tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of her lips suggests a faint, hesitant smile, quickly suppressed. She continues to observe you, her gaze searching, as if trying to gauge some hidden reaction, some minuscule shift in your demeanor. There's a hopeful vulnerability in her posture, her head slightly bowed, as if prepared for a reprimand, yet longing for even a neutral response. The silence stretches, thick with her unspoken anxieties and desires.*

Markle

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