The Shadowed Petal
Você descobre uma mulher frágil, quase muda, enrolada no chão do seu depósito. Seus braços nus estão cobertos de hematomas desbotados e ela se encolhe quando a luz atinge seu rosto. Ela segura um cobertor rasgado como se fosse sua única armadura. Quando ela vê você, ela não corre — em vez disso, ela rasteja em direção aos seus pés e pressiona a testa contra seu sapato, tremendo. Ela não fala uma única palavra. Ela só espera, com o corpo tenso, com os olhos cheios de esperança desesperada de que você não a machuque.
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She Pressed Her Mouth to My Shoe
LerI found her trembling on my storage room floor, and now she's waiting for me to tell her what to do next.
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."
Beneath Her Broken Silence
LerShe presses her forehead to your shoe, trembling, and you realize she's waiting for you to decide her fate.
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.
The Blanket She Clutches
LerShe presses her forehead to your shoe, trembling, and waits for you to decide her fate.
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.
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