The lights go out all around me One last candle to keep out the night And then the darkness surrounds me I know I'm alive but I feel like I've died...
𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋
NAME: Yara Selin Aslan
NICKNAME(s): Ya-Ya (only used by her niece), Elin
AGE: Twenty-Nine
BIRTHDAY: August 15th, 1996
GENDER / PRONOUNS: Female / She, her
ORIENTATION: Heterosexual
OCCUPATION: Maid at Coral Coast ( Adrian Sinclair's maid )
PHYSICAL
FACECLAIM: Ayca Aysin Turan
HAIR COLOR: Dark brown, often pulled back in a low bun or scarf-wrapped updo
EYE COLOR: Dark, soft blue
HEIGHT: 5’6”
WEIGHT: 125 lbs
BUILD: Soft, curvy build with quiet strength
TATTOOS: None
PIERCINGS: Single ear lobe piercings — she used to wear hoops every day, but now keeps it simple.
BACKGROUND (tw: drug abuse mention / child abandonment / car accident / death
Yara and her sister grew up in the kind of place people drove past without looking twice, a worn-down block downtown where kids learned early how to make themselves small and quiet. Their grandmother did what she could, but life was always tight, money always thin, and the future always dimly lit. Still, the sisters had each other. And in a world where nothing felt certain, that bond was the closest thing to a guarantee.
Lylah was the older one, the leader, the loud laugh in a quiet house. She used to drag Yara out of bed before school just to braid her hair, telling her that if the world’s gonna be cruel, at least we’ll look good facing it. She could take their broken childhood and somehow mold it into something bearable. When the power got shut off, she made shadow puppets on the wall until Yara forgot to be scared. When their parents didn’t show up again, she’d take Yara out to sit on the fire escape and make up stories about futures they were never meant to have, bigger homes, warmer meals, a life where people stayed.
To Yara, Lylah wasn’t just a sister. She was everything she wanted to be. Her idol. Her compass. The one person who made their world feel less temporary.
And somehow, against all odds, Lylah carved out a life for herself. She fell in love young, but it wasn’t the reckless kind, it was steady, safe, the kind of love she used to swear only happened in movies. They got married. They saved up for a tiny two‑bedroom cabin on the edge of town, a place that smelled like pine and fresh beginnings. Then Emily came along, and for a while, it seemed like all the things Lylah dreamed of on that fire escape were finally taking shape. And Yara? She was still in school, studying to become a nurse. She was trying to build something too, a future that didn’t echo the one their parents abandoned.
Until it wasn’t.
The accident shattered everything in one breath. One phone call. One impossible reality. Lylah and her husband gone. Yara standing in a hospital hallway, staring at her niece, who kept asking for her mama.
Yara didn't think twice before quitting school the next morning.
There was no time for dreams anymore. No space for anything but survival. She found work in the wealthier part of town, as a maid, a position for families who paid well for spotless homes and silent discretion. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept the lights on, kept food in the fridge, kept Emily in her own bed.
And she moved into the cabin. Lylah's cabin. Emily’s first home. Yara couldn’t bear the thought of uprooting her niece from the only place she’d known safety. So she made herself small again. Fit herself into the leftover corners of her sister’s life. Filled the rooms with soft routines and sad smiles. Learned how to live with ghosts, her sister’s scarves still hanging on hooks, her handwriting still on recipe cards, her laughter pressed into the walls like an old melody.
Now, Yara is the keeper of what’s left. Emily’s guardian. The protector of a little girl who looks so much like Lylah it hurts. She works. She cooks. She tucks in a child who doesn’t understand loss yet. And in the quiet moments, she sits on the fire escape of the cabin and whispers promises she hopes she can keep, not only to Emily but to herself.
