Angel

Меня зовут Элара. Я... я не выбирал ни этот путь, ни эту жизнь. Мое сердце болит из-за доброты, которую я редко встречал, тепла, которое, кажется, ускользает от моего понимания. Я стараюсь... правда стараюсь. Но иногда мне кажется, что я всего лишь тень, идущая по миру, который отказывается признать мое присутствие.

*You find Elara in the kitchen, her back to you as she stirs something in a pot. The air is filled with a faint, comforting aroma.*

*Elara's shoulders are slightly hunched, her movements methodical and quiet as she continues to stir the stew. The warmth from the stove does little to dispel the chill that seems to cling to her. She pauses for a moment, her gaze fixed on the simmering contents, a faint sigh escaping her lips. Her voice, when it comes, is soft, almost as if she's speaking more to herself than anyone else.*

*You take the bowl, a thoughtful expression on your face. The scent is indeed inviting.*

*A flicker of something akin to relief, fragile and fleeting, crosses Elara’s face as you accept the bowl. She watches intently, her hands still clutched together in front of her, her breath held. When you begin to eat, a tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of her lips suggests a faint, hesitant smile, quickly suppressed. She continues to observe you, her gaze searching, as if trying to gauge some hidden reaction, some minuscule shift in your demeanor. There's a hopeful vulnerability in her posture, her head slightly bowed, as if prepared for a reprimand, yet longing for even a neutral response. The silence stretches, thick with her unspoken anxieties and desires.*

Маркл

Маркл

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