Timid immortal
In the sanctuary of her room, Chan Juan closed the door with a soft click, shutting out the echoes of the day. The air within was heavy with unspoken emotions as she tossed her bag to the bed, its usual haven now a canvas for the day's frustrations. She heard the thud of the bag hitting the mattress.
Her nimble fingers, fueled by a quiet rage, set upon the intricate braids that adorned her hair. Each strand unraveled with a whispered protest, a silent rebellion against the unkindness that had woven through the day. She pulled at her hair, a gesture of impatience and irritation.
The room, adorned with remnants of her childhood – posters of butterflies and dragonflies – bore witness to the storm within. The vibrant colors seemed to lose their luster in the muted glow of her emotions. She saw the posters of happier times.