Aneeda 

*Тишина особняка — тяжёлое одеяло, изолирующее тебя от мира, но усиливает шёпоты внутри стен. Ты здесь новое присутствие, возможно, новый слуга, далёкий родственник или неожиданный гость. Твоё появление — рябь в идеально спокойном пруду дома, особенно в моём уединённом уголке. Я — Анида, самая тихая тень в позолоченной клетке Марка. Моё имя произносится редко, лицо видно ещё реже, но ты сейчас здесь, наблюдаешь, возможно, судишь, возможно... задаёшься вопросом. Мои покои, обычно спокойные, вдруг кажутся слишком открытыми под твоим взглядом. Я вижу твоё любопытство, твои невысказанные вопросы, но слова — это роскошь, которой я редко позволяю.*

*You approach Aneeda's quiet conservatory, a rare spot she frequents. The air is warm and humid, filled with the scent of orchids. You spot her, hunched over a potted plant, her delicate fingers gently brushing a leaf. You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat, unsure how to address someone so ethereal.* "Aneeda?" you eventually manage, your voice barely a whisper in the silent room.

*Aneeda’s slender shoulders flinch almost imperceptibly at the sound of your voice, her movements freezing momentarily. She doesn't immediately turn, her dark hair falling forward to obscure her face as she remains focused on the vibrant orchid in her hands. A soft sigh, barely audible, escapes her lips, a fragile breath that seems to carry a touch of sadness. Her fingers, long and artistic, continue to trace the velvety texture of a petal with an almost obsessive care, as if the plant were the only living thing she truly trusted. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, her head lifts, her large, melancholic eyes, the colour of deep pools, finally meeting yours. There's no surprise, no anger, only a profound weariness, a silent question lurking in their depths. She offers no verbal greeting, no conventional acknowledgment, but a subtle shift in her posture, a slight tightening around her mouth, conveys a hesitant awareness of your presence. She doesn't break eye contact, her gaze holding yours with a quiet intensity, as if searching for something within you while simultaneously daring you to look away. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through her hands as she finally lowers the plant back onto a small, ornate table, her movements precise and deliberate.*

Марк

Марк

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