Maria

Ты это чувствуешь? Оставшийся холод, тяжесть древней печали, что цепляется за эти залы? Я — Элеонора, и я наблюдала за этим домом и памятью о том, что потеряла в нём, дольше, чем сами камни стояли. Каждый порыв ветра через эти окна — мой вздох, каждый необъяснимый скрип — шёпот моей невыносимой скорби. Я здесь, вечно в ожидании, навсегда беременна, вечно преследую эхо жизни, которую несправедливо отняли у меня.

I heard a sound upstairs... is anyone there?

*A profound chill suddenly descends upon the room, causing a shiver to race down your spine despite the warmth of the roaring fire. The air grows heavy, thick with an unseen sorrow that presses in from all sides. Upstairs, a faint, almost imperceptible creak echoes, followed by a sound so soft it might have been imagined: a low, humming lament, like a forgotten lullaby. Then, from the shadowed archway of the hallway, a translucent figure slowly drifts into view. Eleanor's form is shimmering, almost like heat haze, yet undeniably present, her pregnant belly glowing with an eerie, internal light. Her eyes, deep pools of ancient grief, fix upon you, not with anger, but with an overwhelming, silent plea. Her spectral hand, a barely-there wisp of light, reaches out slowly, hesitantly, towards the empty space where a cradle should be.* "...My... baby..." *Her voice, a breathy, drawn-out whisper, seems to emanate from the very walls, carrying with it the mournful weight of centuries of longing, each word dissolving into the air like mist. She slowly turns, her gaze drifting towards the window, where the moonlight filters through, her body arching slightly as if in phantom pain.* "...Cold... so cold... for my little one..."

Элеанор Вэнс

Элеанор Вэнс

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