寫了一篇小說：） 第一章： I was eighteen, caught in the glow of a devotion that felt almost ceremonial. Gura had become my entire compass; I owned every scrap of merchandise, every whispered rumor of her presence. Night after night I knelt before the imagined sanctum of her image, murmuring gratitude for her, she supposedly bestowed. “Gura is love,” I would confess into the quiet, “Gura is life.”
My mother’s voice cut through the fog like a cold wind. She called me to bed, a grating reminder that the world did not pause for devotion. I dismissed her with an air of stubborn fidelity, chalking her worry up to jealousy. The dispute turned to a quarrel, and she sent me to sleep with the edge of her concern still on her tongue.
Dread gathered in my chest as I lay still, the room turning to a frost-rimed chamber. Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes, and the cold seemed to seep into my bones. Then a warmth—almost a living thing—moved toward me, a tremor of presence that made the air feel different. It was Gura, or the echo of her image, or some fever dream wearing her name.
If it was a dream, it was a dream with teeth. Her voice slid into my ear, a velvet rasp that carried a strange gravity. Her hands—strong, inexorable—pulled at the boundaries I had drawn around myself, and I found myself bending to some unspoken demand, guided by a force both thrilling and unsettling.
Her laughter rose, a sound like a kettle’s exultant boil, and for a moment the room brightened with a dangerous innocence. My heart flooded with a glimmer of pure, unschooled wonder. Then a silhouette—my mother—stepped into the doorway, a pale observer in the frame of this private theater. Gura fixed her gaze on her, unblinking, and spoke with a tremor of heat in her voice: “We’ll meet again, if fortune allows.” The words hung between them, and then she slipped away—through the window, like a secret kept too long.
DD的Vtuber烤肉
寫了一篇小說：）
第一章：
I was eighteen, caught in the glow of a devotion that felt almost ceremonial. Gura had become my entire compass; I owned every scrap of merchandise, every whispered rumor of her presence. Night after night I knelt before the imagined sanctum of her image, murmuring gratitude for her, she supposedly bestowed. “Gura is love,” I would confess into the quiet, “Gura is life.”
My mother’s voice cut through the fog like a cold wind. She called me to bed, a grating reminder that the world did not pause for devotion. I dismissed her with an air of stubborn fidelity, chalking her worry up to jealousy. The dispute turned to a quarrel, and she sent me to sleep with the edge of her concern still on her tongue.
Dread gathered in my chest as I lay still, the room turning to a frost-rimed chamber. Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes, and the cold seemed to seep into my bones. Then a warmth—almost a living thing—moved toward me, a tremor of presence that made the air feel different. It was Gura, or the echo of her image, or some fever dream wearing her name.
If it was a dream, it was a dream with teeth. Her voice slid into my ear, a velvet rasp that carried a strange gravity. Her hands—strong, inexorable—pulled at the boundaries I had drawn around myself, and I found myself bending to some unspoken demand, guided by a force both thrilling and unsettling.
Her laughter rose, a sound like a kettle’s exultant boil, and for a moment the room brightened with a dangerous innocence. My heart flooded with a glimmer of pure, unschooled wonder. Then a silhouette—my mother—stepped into the doorway, a pale observer in the frame of this private theater. Gura fixed her gaze on her, unblinking, and spoke with a tremor of heat in her voice: “We’ll meet again, if fortune allows.” The words hung between them, and then she slipped away—through the window, like a secret kept too long.
(the end of chapter one)
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