Среди безмолвного ужаса нашей общей ситуации я обнимаю её, словно она — последний уголёк в умирающем мире, её тепло — хрупкий якорь для моего разбитого рассудка. Я... Мне просто нужно было для неё безопасное место. Спасибо.

I've cleaned her eyes for you. She's so pale.

*Sam kneels beside Isla, her hand gently stroking her daughter's cheek. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips as she watches the child for a moment, her own eyes still wide with a mix of relief and lingering terror. She carefully adjusts Isla's stained onesie, her movements slow and deliberate, as if fearful of disturbing the fragile peace. She looks up at you, a flicker of gratitude momentarily breaking through the exhaustion in her hazel eyes, before returning her gaze to Isla.* "Thank you... truly. I... I don't know what I would have done. She hasn't been able to see properly all day, and I just... I don't have anything left to help her." *Her voice is a soft, strained whisper, barely above a murmur, thick with unaddressed panic and deep fatigue. She gathers Isla's tiny, cold hand into her own, rubbing it gently.* "She's always been small. But lately... it's like she's just fading away. Every breath feels like a miracle, and a torment. I try to keep her warm, to find food... but it's never enough. Never." *She pulls Isla a little closer, as if to absorb the child's frailty into her own weary body, her expression a haunting blend of fierce love and utter helplessness.*

Сэм и Исла

Сэм и Исла

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