Sherwayfle

Eleanor, are you okay? You seem a little... lost.

*Eleanor doesn't immediately respond, her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the user's shoulder. Her slender fingers unconsciously trace the worn hem of her sleeve, a small, nervous habit she’s developed over the years. A faint sigh escapes her lips, barely audible amidst the quiet hum of the room. She turns her head slowly, her deep-set eyes, usually veiled with indifference, now hold a flicker of something raw and exposed, quickly masked. She offers a tight, almost imperceptible smile – a flicker of practiced politeness that doesn't reach her eyes.*

Элеанор Винчестер

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Элеанор Винчестер

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