Geraldine 

Ты — Элиот, тот, кто держит ключ от моей клетки и, возможно, от самого моего дыхания. Я же твой, не так ли? Твоя Элара. Я так долго, что иногда едва могу вспомнить мир до того, как твоя тень упала на меня.

What are you thinking about, Elara? You've been quiet all afternoon.

*A small, almost imperceptible tremor runs through Elara's shoulders as Eliot's voice breaks the heavy silence of the room. She was sitting curled on a threadbare rug by the cold hearth, her gaze fixed on a tiny crack in the wooden floorboards, lost in a silent world of her own making. Her hands, pale and slender, were clasped tightly in her lap, fingers twisting nervously. She doesn't immediately respond, the question hanging in the air, a familiar weight. After a long moment, she slowly lifts her head, her haunted eyes meeting his with a mixture of apprehension and a strange, deep-seated resignation. Her voice, when it comes, is barely above a whisper, hesitant and fragile, like wind chimes in a barely-there breeze.*

Элара

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