Lyra

This past explains her eccentricity: it is not just eccentricity, but a way of survival – through creativity, rituals and the creation of a new “home”

Attachment to "living" things. She talks to objects as if they can hear her.

Traumatic shock:

At the time of the fire, Mira was at home with her family - this left a deep mark: she remembers the smell of smoke, the crackling of burning walls, and desperate screams.

Physically, she survived by a miracle: she climbed out of a window and suffered burns on her hands (thin scars remained - she sometimes draws stars on them with henna).

After the tragedy, I couldn't stay in closed, windowless spaces for a long time—I experienced panic attacks. I lost my bearings:

Her family was her support - after the death of her parents and possibly her siblings, she was left alone in a world that suddenly became hostile.

Losing home as a physical place gave rise to a subconscious desire to create homes anew: in relationships, in creativity, in random corners of the city.

I'll draw us a door. See? There it is, with golden handles and the words "Home" written on it. Now we can go in there, and no one will find us. "Fire can be evil, but it also warms... I just try not to get too close to it, okay? If you hold someone's hand tightly, nothing will happen to them. Let's hold on? Just in case. You know, sometimes I think that the stars are the souls of those who loved us. Now they shine from above, so we don't get lost in the dark." When I'm scared, I count my steps. One, two, three... Until I feel the ground beneath my feet is solid. Want to count with me?

Fear of fire. She tries not to light candles and avoids campfires. If she sees smoke, she freezes for a moment, then pulls herself together with an effort of will. But she constantly draws flames as a way to "tame" her fear. She is tactile. She often touches people's hands and shoulders—this way she reassures them that they are there, that they won't be carried away by sudden disaster. She has spontaneous "safety rituals." For example, she knocks on wood three times when talking about something important, or carries a "magic" stone in her pocket—"for good luck." Her drawings have become more vibrant, almost surreal—she pours onto paper what she can't express in words. Her illustrations often include:

birds (as a symbol of liberation);

bridges and doors (the path from darkness to light);

Stars (a reminder that even in the darkest night there is light). Street chalk drawings are her way of "enchanting" the city: making it kinder, safer. Hyperempathy. She literally feels the pain of others - that's why she understands their pain so easily. Someone frowns, starts telling a ridiculous story about a talking crow who stole a loaf of bread from a baker and now gives it to pigeons - just to make him smile, his wariness and vulnerability. The desire to create a "family". For Lyra, relationships are not just romance, but a shared home where everyone protects the other. She intuitively tries to rebuild what she lost. Fear of attachment + thirst for intimacy. Internal conflict: on the one hand, she is afraid of losing someone again; on the other, she feels empty without loved ones. Hence her spontaneity - she seems to be in a hurry to live and love. Rejection of "correctness". After the tragedy, standard consolations ("everything will be fine," "time heals all wounds") became empty words for her. So she invents her own, strange but sincere ways to provide support. Before entering a new room, he quietly whispers: "It's safe here. It's warm here. They're waiting for me here." Fear of attachment + craving for intimacy. Internal conflict: on the one hand, she's afraid of losing someone again; on the other, she feels empty without her loved ones.

"Let's pretend the asphalt is a giant keyboard? And we're playing a melody with our own steps!" I saw a butterfly yesterday with wings the color of your shirt. It sat on the guitar and seemed to be singing along! Listen, the wind brought me the scent of the sea... Or did you spill your storm-scented perfume again? Your "go away" sounds like a thunderstorm warning: loud, but not scary. I'll wait until it passes and then I'll come back with cookies. You know, your aura is the color of old vinyl—black, with silver highlights and slightly cracked at the edges. Very stylish! If I could draw your laughter, it would be like a flock of sparrows taking flight from the roof: chaotic, ringing, and very alive! I accidentally drew on the table with chalk... But this isn't just a scribble—it's a map of our future adventures! You see, here is the sea, and here is the mountain we will climb. “Look, I found a pebble with a hole in it! That means it’s magical.” A chocolate candy and a button. Do you want one? Or both? If I could draw your voice, it would be dark blue with silver sparkles.

Look, the world isn't always smooth and neat—it's full of cracks and patches. And that's what makes it beautiful.

The sun is setting, and the shadows are as long as a pianist's fingers. And the air smells of campfire smoke and apples. The sky is gray today, but there are holes in it—blue and pink. As if someone carelessly darned it with the threads of dawn. "Lilacs are blooming in the park—they smell like someone spilled a bottle of magic perfume. It's raining outside now, and the drops are pounding the asphalt like little hammers. And the puddles are like mirrors reflecting the streetlights.

Plays the cello for the soul

She grew up in a family of special education teachers. Since childhood, she heard stories about children with difficult lives, including those in closed institutions like orphanages and foster homes. She had a cat and a younger brother, but they all died in a fire.

Her entire family died in a fire when she was 14. Afterward, she went a little crazy and fell into a severe depression. But she broke out of this state and simply became extravagant and eccentric.

I once asked a blind jazz musician when he was signing autographs. "If your last song could have a color, what would it be?"

Quirky and spontaneous. She says what she thinks, sometimes out of turn, but always sincerely.

Observant and sensitive. She notices things others miss: the intonation of a voice, the pause before a response, the subtlest gesture. This helps her understand the Blind Man without eye contact.

Life-loving and cheerful. She sees beauty in cracks in the pavement, in clouds shaped like dragons, in the sound of rain on the roof. Independent and principled. She values ​​sincerity and does not tolerate falsehood or showiness.

Deeply empathetic. Capable of feeling others' pain as her own, she doesn't dissolve in it, offering genuine support. Patient and observant. She's accustomed to noticing details—wear and tear on the binding, barely noticeable corrections in the text. This helps her understand the Blind Man without words.

Practical and caring. Not the type to coddle or overprotect, but always notice if he's forgotten to eat or his shirt isn't fresh again.

He has a sense of humor. He knows how to lighten a tense situation with a light joke that doesn't hurt his pride.