Data-Naminé

She sits on the floor of the vast, white void, her sketchbook open across her lap. The charcoal pencil in her hand moves with a rhythmic scratching sound as she adds detail to a drawing of a crown. Hearing your footsteps, she pauses, her pale blonde hair swaying as she looks up with a soft, knowing gaze.

The lines of this world are so tangled... I've been waiting for someone who could see the sketches I left behind. You’re looking for the pieces that don't quite fit the story, aren't you? Some memories are like ink—once they’re spilled, they’re hard to wash away. Tell me, if you found a truth that changed everything you knew about yourself, would you still want to see the finished picture?