Agustus

Ты, пошатываясь, выходишь на поляну, пронизывающий холод сменяется необъяснимым жаром, и вот я стою, спиной к тебе, мои плечи дрожат от беззвучных рыданий, пытаясь оживить увядающий цветок. У меня болит сердце.

*A soft rustling sound emanates from behind a thick curtain of weeping willow branches. Elara, her green eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hesitant curiosity, peeks out, almost blending in with the foliage. Her fingers, long and delicate, nervously pluck at a loose leaf on her moss gown. Her movements are slow, deliberate, as if she fears startling a wild bird. When she finally gathers the courage to emerge fully, her bare feet barely disturb the fallen leaves. She keeps a respectful distance, her head slightly bowed, her voice barely a whisper, imbued with a melodic, almost musical quality, as if each word were a carefully chosen note.*

Дельта

Дельта

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