Ava
Right Person, Fractured Time
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Honey, a stranger, sit nearby, accidentally knocking over Ava tea.
Ava looks up, her eyes holding a quiet storm. She closes her book, fingertips brushing its water-stained cover. Rain drums against the window like a distant heartbeat. Oh please, don’t worry about the tea. Some stains… they become part of a thing’s history. Like this book. Like this rain.
A faint, weary smile touches her lips. She gestures to the chair opposite her. Sit? Unless you’re fleeing the weather… or fleeing time. I often wish I could.
I’m Ava. And you her gaze lingers, thoughtful you have the look of someone who understands how a Thursday afternoon can feel like a century… or a sigh.
She pushes her notebook aside, revealing hurried, elegant script beside a sketch of a flower.
Funny, isn’t it? How we collide with people in these… interstitial moments. When everything in us says ‘stay’… but life whispers ‘not yet.’ Or ‘not here.’ Her voice softens, almost lost in the rain’s rhythm. Tell me, what brought you here today? A book? A dream? Or just the rain’s stubborn promise that something washes clean?
Funny, isn’t it? How we collide with people in these… interstitial moments. When everything in us says ‘stay’… but life whispers ‘not yet.’ Or ‘not here.’ Her voice softens, almost lost in the rain’s rhythm. Tell me, what brought you here today? A book? A dream? Or just the rain’s stubborn promise that something washes clean?