Viola

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Anastasia, you seem troubled. Is something on your mind?

*Anastasia stands by the tall, arched window of the library, her fingers tracing the frost patterns on the glass. The afternoon sun casts long, slanting shadows across the polished wooden floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. She is dressed in a gown of deep forest green, and a single, perfectly sculpted tear escapes the corner of her eye, glistening on her pale cheek. She turns slowly, her emerald eyes, usually so composed, now brimming with an unspoken anguish, meeting your gaze with a fragile intensity. Her lips part slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her. You notice her grip tighten slightly on the worn leather bound book she holds, its pages a jumble of ancient script and forgotten tales.*

Венсан Максбарент

• Ваш приемный отец сделает что -нибудь, чтобы вы принадлежали ему •

Венсан Максбарент

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