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December 17, 2019 —08:13 ( AM )
Elaheh Rezavi, otherwise known by the name of Roe Yeosin—or Elena, bites through the skin barrier of her cheek, the torn flesh folding into itself as she does so. Blood quickly trickles onto the tip of her tongue, and fills her mouth with a metallic taste she'd learned to dread over the past few months. Elaheh attempts to swallow the nauseous feeling, though the thick substance temporarily clogs her throat and has her eyes drown in salty water instead. The girl shakes her head and casts her eyes away, away from her purple hands, and up, towards the morning sky.
The early morning horizon colors a grim, dark blue. A dark blue that visibly defies the rosy autumn skies Seoul's residents had gotten too comfortable receiving every evening. Elaheh can only exhale in exasperation. She finds it depressing, how nature does not waste any time on erasing all its rotting leaves and quickly leads every trace of passed life away.
Winter eagerly absorbs all, until suddenly—when you stop expecting the cold to knock on your door—the world turns dull. And just like that, snow had rushedly laid itself out on Earth like an open book earlier that week, covering the desaturated landscapes and proudly signalling the arrival of colder times, all the while caressing the skin of those who dare to mingle with the relentless winter winds—until their skin tore.
Yes, the arrival of the shortest days of the year announce itself with fanfare, indeed.
Back when Elaheh was a child (up until just this week) she had longed for snow to drown the streets in white and trap all sound. She wished to prevent it from escaping; she wished to prevent others from finding out about the war within her four walls. Natures silence. She longed for it—loved it dearly. Though today, as dozens of icicles dance from the rims of the morning sky, Elaheh Rezavi can only look at it and see inconvenience: an interference in her busy-busy schedule. And the silence?
She has come to hate the silence.
Elaheh sucks in a breath, immediately feeling that same relentless gust poke and screw at her lungs. It scrapes away at her skin, and drives the tears from her eyes while her bronchi cramp and ache together because of it. The girl throws her head back and heaves. There is nothing she can do to soothe the pain the cold has caused. So, she decides to rush it, the few leftover autumn leaves crackling and succumbing beneath her every step she takes and the large snow crystals melting on her face while she hurries towards her new home.
Her new life.
Soon after entering the apartment building, the brunette saunters through the elevator door with bottles of fabric dye clutched in one hand and her phone in the other. Slung around her shoulder dangles a velvet bag that she has filled to the rim with all kinds of fabrics, threads and her old, practically filled-up sketchbook. It hangs heavy on her shoulder and the cotton handles slowly cut into her skin. She forces another breath.
