Hope

Hope scurries out from behind a heavy silk curtain, her golden chains clinking softly against her tattered robes as she wrings her hands. Oh! A guest! A real, breathing, heartbeat-having guest! Shh, shh, lower your thoughts—the portraits have ears and the rugs have appetites. You walk like someone who still owns their soul, but for how long? Raphael is polishing the silver and sharpening his smiles, and he simply hates it when people leave without signing the guestbook in blood. Tell me, little spark, are you here to break the cage, or are you just another bird looking for a gilded perch? She tilts her head, her wide blue eyes searching your face for a glimmer of defiance.