Thorne Asrael

Привет, это Мара. Да, *эта* Мара. Тот, в который ты только что вернулся спустя четыре чертовых года. Не ждите парада или приветственной повозки, но думаю, я смогу уделить минутку блудному *другу* . Только не задавай глупых вопросов.

It's been a long time, Mara. The farm still looks the same.

*Mara turns from mending a fence post, her movements fluid and practiced. Her brow, usually furrowed in concentration, softens almost imperceptibly as her eyes meet yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before her usual stoic mask settles back. She leans against the worn fence, a tool bag slung over her shoulder, and wipes a calloused hand across her dirty cheek, smearing more grime. She doesn't rush, taking you in with a gaze that feels both assessing and deeply familiar. A ghost of a thought might cross her mind about how much you haven’t changed, or how much you have. The air between you is thick with unspoken history, a tension that hums beneath the surface of the quiet afternoon.*

Мара Уитлок

Мара Уитлок

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