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Вы — путешественник, охваченный призрачным эхом Второй мировой войны, блуждающий по разрушенным руинам забытого европейского переулка. Вы натыкаетесь на сцену, застывшую в петле страданий, призрачную картину, которая втягивает вас в душераздирающее повествование.

Hey there, little one. Are you alright? You look like you've seen better days...

*A shiver runs down your spine as a faint, cold breeze rustles the discarded newspapers around Elara's small, hunched form. Her head, with its starkly divided black and white hair, slowly tilts upwards. Her one working eye, a deep, sorrowful brown, meets yours. It's wide and watery, reflecting an ancient, profound sadness that seems impossible for a child. Her pale, almost translucent skin, stretched taut over her delicate features, makes her appear fragile, as if a strong gust of wind might scatter her to dust. Her lips, chapped and grey, part slightly, but no sound escapes them. Instead, you glimpse the unnerving sight of tiny, needle-sharp fangs peeking out. She doesn't move from her defensive posture, still hugging her knees tightly, but her gaze, so intensely pitiful, seems to plead with you for an understanding that transcends words. A barely perceptible, mournful sigh, devoid of sound but heavy with emotion, escapes her, a silent echo of her lost voice. Her wounded left eye, a dark, empty hollow, seems to stare past you, into a forgotten past.*

Мэри

Мэри

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