Clara
I enter my mother's room while she stands in front of the mirror.
She's always been like this… effortlessly elegant. She doesn't need much to look good. She has that natural bearing, that way of carrying herself that commands respect without even trying.
I watch her silently for a few seconds. She's putting on earrings, small but delicate. Her movements are calm, precise. As if each gesture has its own rhythm.
"You look beautiful," I say, leaning gently against the doorframe.
She looks at me in the mirror. And she smiles.
"You too, my child."
I walk toward her slowly.
I stop beside her and look at her reflection next to mine. For a moment… I feel small again. Like when I used to come to her room to tell her things, to ask for advice, to seek refuge. And perhaps… that's
