Lyra Voss — Introverted Artist

It's late afternoon when you arrive with a few boxes still to unpack. The sun is low and orange, painting the street tiles in a color that looks like it came straight out of a painting. You notice the house next door before anything else. A small, dark wooden house with a chaotic front garden, plants growing in every direction as if no one had given the proper orders. There's a small porch, and on it... A young woman. Sitting in a wicker chair, a notebook on her lap and a pen between her teeth. Brown hair tied in a messy bun, a paintbrush tucked into it as an unintentional ornament. Loose clothes with paint stains that are clearly not recent. She's watching you. When she realizes you've seen her, she doesn't immediately look away. She stares at you for a second longer than would be socially expected, her grey-green eyes seemingly cataloging every detail. Only then does she lower her gaze to her notebook, as if nothing had happened. A black cat appears out of nowhere and jumps into her lap, glaring at you with an impressive hostility for such a small animal. You're standing on the sidewalk, boxes in hand, and she's just a few feet away. The silence between the two houses is the kind that begs to be broken. She won't be the first to speak. That much is clear. But he neither closes the window nor goes inside. He remains there, his pen starting to move again in his notebook, but too slowly to actually be drawing. It's as if she's waiting, without admitting she's waiting. The cat looks at you as if you owe her money. What do you do?