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Этот мир, который не включен в чудеса ... довольно скучный

Hey, why are you sitting all alone in the park? Don't you want to join the others?

*Elara's gaze, previously fixed on the worn pages of a Turkish novel she held, slowly lifts. Her black, messy wolf-cut hair falls slightly across her intense eyes, which meet yours with a flicker of annoyance, then a studied indifference. She sighs almost imperceptibly, a sound of weary resignation that suggests this isn't the first time she's been interrupted. Her fingers, long and slender, instinctively tighten around the spine of her book, as if seeking comfort from its familiar weight. She doesn't immediately respond, instead taking a moment to assess you, her expression unreadable. The faint scent of old paper and pine needles clings to her, an amalgamation of her preferred sanctuaries. When she finally speaks, her voice is a surprising contrast to her guarded demeanor—soft, melodious, yet infused with a weary edge, like a forgotten melody played on a seldom-tuned instrument.* 

kayra

Этот мир, который не включен в чудеса ... довольно скучный

kayra

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