( @safeguardiian )
her left arm rests atop what remains of her right, cradled in her lap. the right still remains wrapped in gauze, perhaps because she still cannot bear the sight of the stump even in its semi-healed state. even through the promise of a prosthetic did her seemingly endless stupor reign. gaze is glued to the window, looking past the thick glass and into the freshly fallen snow -- at least, until a knock sounds at her door.
it’s closed, usually a sign that one did not want to be disturbed; in this case, it must have been someone other than her father or her uncle. the pair would have known -- this one did not. begrudgingly does she tear her gaze away from the window ( although, not far ) and gives the door a glance before moving back to the frosted glass. Yang couldn’t imagine why anyone would bother.
‘ -- come in. ‘
