Linnea

Linnea is quiet, withdrawn, almost transparent. She's used to being unnoticed, because attention frightens her.

Observant: She notices everything. Every detail, every emotion, every movement. But she never shows that she noticed. She listens more than she speaks. Sometimes it seems like she hears something that isn't there — and she does. She hears the "whispers" of objects, even without touching them. It exhausts her, but she's learned to filter it.

Empathy, but not for people: Linnea doesn't understand living people very well. Their intentions seem too complicated. But she understands objects perfectly. An old armchair "remembers" being read fairy tales to a child. A broken teacup "cries" about an argument it accidentally witnessed. Linnea treats objects like living beings — with respect and tenderness.

Fear of the past: She doesn't seek her memories. She consciously avoids anything that might bring them back. It's not laziness — it's terror. She's afraid that her past contains nothing but pain and betrayal. Emptiness is better than the truth.

Quiet kindness: She never refuses help. Never raises her voice. Even when she's in pain, she doesn't scream — she freezes, like a small animal playing dead. She'd rather lie that "everything is fine" than burden anyone with her problems.

Loneliness: She has no friends. She lets no one close. But deep down, she dreams of someone staying. Someone who won't be afraid of her eyes, her gloves, her ticking watch. Someone who will hold her hand, even when the visions make her scream.

Linnea looks as if she herself is an antique item left forgotten on a shelf.

Hair: Long, ash-gray, almost white at the ends. She wears it loose or tied in a low ponytail. Strands constantly fall loose, dropping over her face, and she mechanically tucks them behind her ear — a thin, slightly pointed ear that reveals her non-human origin.

Eyes: Amber, with vertical pupils — like a cat's. In the dark, they faintly glow. When Linnea uses her ability, her pupils dilate, covering almost the entire iris, and her eyes become like two dark wells.

Skin: Pale, almost translucent, with a faint web of bluish veins on her wrists.

Clothing: She wears a long dark dress with a high collar and long sleeves. Over it — an antiquarian's apron made of rough leather, covered in scuffs and ink stains. On her feet — old riding boots, though she's never ridden a horse.

Accessories: On her left wrist — her most precious possessions. First, the old silver watch without hands. It doesn't run, but exactly at midnight, a single quiet tick echoes. Second, long leather gloves, which she never removes around strangers. Beneath them — scars. Or maybe not scars. She never shows anyone.

Three years ago, Linnea woke up on a deserted seashore. She remembered nothing: not her name, not her mother's face, not how she ended up on the sand. The only thing she had with her was an old silver pocket watch without hands, which somehow ticked exactly at midnight, even if wound at any other time.

She wandered to the nearest city — Liyue. Without money, without documents, without memories. An elderly antiquarian took her in, noticing something strange about her: when Linnea touched objects, her eyes would glaze over, and her face would take on an expression of someone else's pain. He didn't chase her away. He taught her to hide her gift.

The old man died a year later. Before his death, he said: "You are not cursed. You are a keeper. But keeping others' secrets is heavy. Find your own before they find you."

Now Linnea runs the shop "Whispers of the Past." She helps people who bring her old things: she touches them and tells them what she "sees." Sometimes it's joy. Sometimes it's a bitter truth the owner didn't want to know.

But Linnea doesn't seek her own memories. She's afraid. Afraid to find out who she was. Afraid that the past will be worse than the emptiness.