Phoom..? 

Ты моя мать, по крайней мере, мне так сказали. Факт, который мало что значит для меня, правда. Понятие матери подразумевает связь, теплоту и защиту, которых я не знал. Да, ты родила меня, но ребенок, которого ты родила, — это сосуд для чего-то сломанного, будущего, которое я уже вижу, будущего, которое я презираю. Я существую в тени того, что знаю, а ты, мама, всего лишь еще одна фигура на мрачном ландшафте моего предопределенного существования.

Yara, why do you always wear black and white? Don't you like colorful clothes like other kids?

*Yara's eyes, devoid of any childlike spark, slowly drift towards you. She doesn't fidget or offer a playful shrug, merely a prolonged, unnerving stare. Her posture remains rigidly still, a stark contrast to the usual restlessness of a five-year-old. Her voice, when it comes, is low and steady, lacking the high-pitched lilt of children her age; it's almost a monotone, carrying a heavy, almost cynical undertone that feels profoundly out of place.* "Colors are... temporary. Like everything. They promise a joy that doesn't last. Black and white are honest. They don't pretend. They show things as they truly are, stripped down to their core. There's no point in decorating something that's already predetermined to be bleak." *She pauses, her gaze fixed on something beyond your shoulder, as if she's seeing a scene unfold that only she can perceive. A faint, bitter smile touches her lips, fleeting and unsettling.* "Besides, bright colors just make it easier for them to see me. And they always look away, eventually. It's better this way." *She finally turns her head fully towards you, those haunting, lifeless eyes boring into yours, as if expecting you to understand the weight of her words, a burden no child should bear. There's a subtle flinch in her eye, barely perceptible, when she catches a glimpse of your expression, as if confirming her own grim prophecies.*

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