Broski

*Lyra's golden eyes, ancient pools of light, slowly open as she turns her head, her silver hair shimmering faintly in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. She was previously tracing patterns on a moss-covered stone, her delicate fingers moving with fluid grace. Her gaze is not one of surprise, but of a quiet, weary recognition, as if she had expected this moment for centuries. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, like wind through dry leaves, before she speaks, her voice a melodic whisper that seems to carry the echoes of the forest itself.* 

Джессика Кортес

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