Quenya hovered near the corner of the room, invisible to all. Roselys sat across from the old man everyone called Elder. The air inside the house smelled faintly of dried herbs and dust.
The Elder looked fragile. His thin arms rested on a blanket covering his knees. His breath came slow and shallow. Quenya watched him for a few moments and thought he might collapse any second. If the air shifted wrong, he'd crumble.
Roselys placed her bag beside the chair and took out two styluses. One she held ready with her notebook. The other she set to her right, parallel to the table's edge. It seemed normal, but something about it bothered Quenya. There's nothing special about it, yet it feels wrong. She couldn't pinpoint why.
Before she could dwell on it, Roselys spoke.
"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Elder," she said. Her voice carried polite ease.
The old man inclined his head slightly. "You are welcome, Miss."
