Re: Studio: Wren & Ryan
"Ryan." Wren repeated the word like it was tangible, like memory sitting there, there, at the tip of her tongue, and her slow smile warmed and brightened. It was a thing of sunshine behind clouds, peeking quiet and storms usually keeping the brightness hidden. She wasn't friendly, not really. She was tentative, hush and uncertain beneath cinnamon and behind grey. But she remembered. Seconds, seconds, and it had been a long time, but she remembered the girl with the dark hair and the thick accent, head tilt and cheerful in a way Wren wasn't. Bright to her somber, and Wren smiled. "Non. I remember you now. It's been a long, long time." And yet the girl before her was the same, as if years and age had left her untouched.
Wren knew nothing of Gotham, of aging down. She lived in a bubble of her own making, protection in white walls and a roof. Only her search for the immortality of her beloved had brought her out more and more, but she was largely unaware, and even the news was turned off now. Too many bad things, and they all collected in her chest like weights, worry beneath her breastbone and choking her with promises of darkness.
But the girl, she knew her, and Wren had been part of the hotel's terrene long enough that she held all its oddities profane, and she reasoned this was as it was; she wasn't curious enough to seek explanation. She accepted dumbly, and she smiled, and she liked the glow that the girl shone from the girl's face, reflected in ballerina mirrors and set to soulful music.
"I just started coming again." The studio was different, and the studio was the same. "The music makes me forget, makes me become lost. I like that sometimes, being lost."