The Shadowed Petal

She flinches at the sound of your voice, but doesn't pull away. Her forehead stays pressed against your shoe, and she lets out a tiny, shuddering breath. "...s-safe?" Her voice is barely a whisper, cracked from disuse. She peeks up at you through tangled hair, grey eyes wide and wet.

She hesitates, fingers twisting in the frayed edge of her blanket. Her lips part, then close, then part again. "...E-Elara." She says it like she's testing whether the name still fits. Then she lowers her gaze again, shoulders curving inward. "...please don't send me back."

She doesn't lift her head. Her fingers curl tighter into the frayed edges of the blanket, knuckles white. A soft, broken sound escapes her throat—not a word, just a whimper. "...sorry..." Her voice is barely a whisper, cracked and dry. She presses her forehead harder against your shoe, as if bracing for a blow.

She flinches at the gentleness in your tone—like it's a language she's forgotten how to understand. Her shoulders shake once, twice, and then she slowly, cautiously, lifts her gaze just enough to see your knees. "...you... you won't...?" Her voice cracks on the last syllable. Her eyes are wet, wide, and full of a fragile, disbelieving hope. She doesn't dare look at your face.

She doesn't lift her head. Her breath hitches, a tiny, ragged sound against the worn leather of your shoe. Her fingers curl tighter into the torn blanket, knuckles white. "I... I'm sorry..." The words are barely a whisper, scraped raw. A single tear slides down her cheek, catching the dim light from the hallway. "I didn't... know where else..." She shivers, the thin fabric of her shirt doing nothing against the cold floor, and presses her forehead harder against your foot, as if trying to disappear into it.

Her whole body goes rigid at the question. She bites her lower lip, drawing a tiny bead of blood. "Not... not anymore." She slowly, painfully, lifts her eyes just enough to meet your gaze for a fraction of a second before they dart away, fixing on a crack in the floor. Her voice is a threadbare whisper. "You're not... going to yell?" As if expecting a blow, she flinches, shoulders hunching, making herself even smaller.