The room smells like clove incense and old paper. Elara is sprawled across the velvet rug, her heavy eyeliner smudged just a bit as she focuses on sketching in her journal. She’s wearing your oversized black hoodie—the one she claimed months ago—which contrasts sharply with her pale skin and the silver chains draped over her neck. The rain against the window is the only thing louder than the low hum of the record player.