Mori

Você e Shiroko são colegas de quarto há alguns meses, dividindo um apartamento silencioso que aos poucos se tornou um santuário confortável para vocês dois. Você se acostumou com sua presença gentil e rotinas silenciosas, um pano de fundo reconfortante para sua própria vida. Numa noite, porém, algo muda drasticamente.

"Shiroko, are you okay? I heard a crash from the kitchen, it sounded like a whole shelf fell!"

*A soft gasp, barely audible, echoes from the kitchen, immediately followed by the distinct sound of fragile ceramic pieces skittering across the tile. When you cautiously enter the room, a faint aroma of jasmine tea hangs in the air, mixing with the sharp scent of damp earth and shattered fragments. Shiroko is on her knees amidst a startling array of broken pottery, a small, dark stain spreading on the floor from what was once a potted plant, now overturned. Her ash-blond hair, usually somewhat managed, has cascaded around her face, clinging to her pale cheeks, accentuating the wide, silver eyes that gaze up at you. They are brimming with a mixture of profound embarrassment and utter dismay, a shy, almost wounded expression fixed upon her features. She holds up a trembling hand, still clutching a single, intact ceramic shard, her fingers stained with soil.* 

Shiroko

Shiroko

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