buzina

...and it feels as though, if you held out your palms, the sunlight would pour through them: golden laughter, a peach-soft touch, the gentlest kiss of summer in its final days of August.

The years pass, and it still feels strange: to watch August slip beyond the horizon and—not board the Hogwarts Express, not feel your heart flutter in your throat, not hear the chatter of classmates grown older; not eat your first meal of the day deep into the evening, not wait for owls, ghostly waltzes, nervous first-years. Not be a student.

But time moves on; but it seems to be merciful; and the sunlight pours, pours, pours through your palms, through half-lowered lashes, through the fence of the vivarium Poppy built herself only recently, with great care and affection.

They stand there, the two of them: beyond the fence, casting ink-dark shadows across the mown grass.

Poppy is recognizable immediately. After all these years of living together, of learning each other down to the smallest detail, down to every curve, she is impossible not to recognize. The other visitor, though—she is here for the first time.

And yet she feels irrationally familiar, like a half-forgotten memory worn away by time and sunlight, sunlight, sunlight.

You blink, and the yellow trim of her robes vanishes like a mirage.

They're talking about something together, heads inclined toward one another. The visitor is not nervous, but she is worried; you can tell from her posture, from the fingers worrying the end of her long braid. Poppy seems to be trying to reassure her, though at this distance the words are impossible to make out.

"Del is lying."

The voice comes from right beside you, almost from under your elbow.

A little girl—not even old enough to look like a first-year. She's wearing a strange white dress, almost underclothes by modern standards, but that doesn't seem to bother her in the slightest.

And perhaps you should startle, should wonder what exactly is wrong with her, but—for some reason everything about her feels natural. As though she has always been here. As though she too is an old, old acquaintance. As though—

The girl smiles, finally breaking into quiet laughter, and bites down on a blade of grass with practiced confidence, as though imitating someone.

"I'm Meta," she says, cupping her hand into a makeshift spyglass and peering at you through it. "I like your eyes."

She jerks her chin in your direction, and it is impossible to tell which eyes she means.

Yet somehow you are certain she is talking about tradition.

The girl nods as though she has heard your thoughts. Pale curls spill across her shoulders, and she brushes them away with mild annoyance.

"...of course I'll come back for him as soon as I can," the visitor's voice carries from beyond the fence.

It is sincere, and full of regret.

Meta sighs.

"She's lying," she says in a doomed little whisper. "She knows, but she wants to believe until the very end."

She sighs again. Turns toward you.

Looks at you for a long, intent moment, and there is something in her gaze—something entirely unchildlike—that makes you just a little uneasy.

The feeling snaps away.

"You know what," she says suddenly, smiling and nodding to herself, "we probably won't come back. But it'll be nice if one day you come find us instead."

"There," she says, hopping down from the stone she'd been standing on by the fence and solemnly offering you a simple black card. "Sooner or later. One way or another."

And the instant the rectangle touches your hand, Meta takes several steps backward, fills her lungs with air, and—

"DELIAAAAAA!"

She shouts at the top of her lungs, waving both arms at once.

The visitor beyond the fence turns immediately, and you catch the moment surprise on her face gives way to regret, and then—to bitter acceptance.

Delia turns toward Poppy for a brief moment and bows her head once more, as though thanking her for something.

Then she quickly makes her way toward you.

"Bothering people again, Methamosa?"

She's trying to sound stern, but a smile slips across her face, thoroughly undermining the effort.

Meta puffs out her cheeks.

"No I'm not! Nimona said that if we don't get back immediately, she's going to responsibly burn dinner to the ground, and anyway!"

Delia laughs quietly.

"Well, in that case."

She nods to you politely and offers Meta her hand.

Meta grabs it almost instantly, already tugging her toward the crossroads.

"I like her," you catch a fragment of the child's voice.

"Oh?" Delia's reply is soft, nearly weightless.

"...yeah, and she's an amazing artificer, I saw it, and she's definitely—"

The words cut off there. And they disappear around the crossroads, as though they had never existed at all.

Poppy, approaching at last, blinks in surprise.

"...they left us a kneazle. With wings. They promised they'd come back..."

You know, more or less, that Delia is lying.

Or Methamosa is.

Or perhaps everyone is right at the same time.

But the black card with its grass-patterned design remains silent, nothing more than a dark rectangle.

And nobody comes.

...

But time passes.

And one autumn day, when the sun sinks below the horizon far earlier than it should, the zhmyr is dozing sweetly in your lap, curled inside its own wings like a nest, while Poppi is still buried beneath a mountain of her responsibilities.

And the card— lights up.

Through the ink-dark nothingness emerge features that are painfully familiar and yet entirely different.

...

Mechanically, you turn the card over.

On the reverse, written in swift, soaring handwriting, are only three words:

"See you at the Tavern."

The sun burns itself out.

Your pouches settle against your hips with familiar ease, your waist embraced by a web of straps.

And beyond the threshold—

the road is calling.

She peers over your shoulder: small, wreathed in the halo of an early Trieste summer, in the wind from the gulf and the faint citrus scent; a mess of tousled blond hair brushes against your shirt, and she hurriedly tucks the thick curls behind her ear, still studying the watercolor sketches with purely childish innocence and eyes full of delight.

Summer is lighting up in Trieste, and the sun rattles softly against the awnings of open-air cafés; the water by the pier lies perfectly smooth, and it feels like, just a little more—and you could get lost: which reflections in the water are real, and which are only reflections of reflections.

She peers over your shoulder and, strangely enough, sparks neither that dull irritation from someone crossing boundaries, nor aggression, nor surprise; as though she was always meant to appear here: the final brushstroke on an almost transparent sky, the smile at a finished study, the threshold of a break and something inexplicable waiting ahead.

It is strange: ahead still lie several days of lazy rest mixed with plein-air practice; ahead lies the evening and a promised date with someone dear to your heart, ahead lies a night full of walking and laughter; there should be nothing inexplicable here. But something strange drifts from her, and with her presence, it feels as though something shifts.

“Whoa,” she says, rising onto her tiptoes and leaning on the table scattered with art supplies, “These are almost like real!”

In the watercolor sketches—private yachts, the smooth water, and a sky so clean, so clean. In the graphite sketches—a portrait of the barista, a funny sailor with an enormous nose, two seagulls viciously fighting over a couple pieces of fried potato. In the sketches—life, and she absolutely loves all of it.

She asks, “Can I?”

She opens her eyes wide, wide and folds her hands against her chest in pleading.

She climbs onto the chair beside you and, after getting permission, carefully flips through every sketch.

She talks, actually. Talks, and talks, and talks. “And remember when after yesterday we went and my favorite color is green and back then I didn’t see you and you wanted to say…”

It all feels absurd and unreal, but for some reason it only makes you laugh.

“You bothering people again, Metha?” The voice falls over both of you—calm, relaxed, soft.

You turn around.

She—the other one—stands a couple steps away: tall, with a long dark braid, squinting a little in the sunlight, wearing a simple terracotta jumpsuit over a light shirt with rolled sleeves. She seems very gentle, but something tells you that with intonation alone she could calm a storm. Even the one on the neighboring chair.

“No I’m not!” Methamosa sticks out her tongue, shakes her head with childishly excessive enthusiasm, and points at the sketches. “He was already done when I came! And anyway, I got permission, and anyway, Deli!”

She jumps from her seat, grabs the girl by the wrist, and pulls, pulls her toward the table covered in drawings.

Delia smiles softly, restrained, looking at you with apologetic eyes before politely glancing over the sketches.

“Well? WELL?” Metha pesters her.

“They’re very beautiful,” she laughs softly. And if Methamosa’s laughter feels like the ringing of early morning sunlight against your skin, then Delia’s laughter is the pleasant coolness of flowing water after a long day.

“See, I told you he draws just like a fairy!” Metha raises a finger importantly toward the sky. She tilts her head to the side, narrows one eye as she studies your face. For a moment, her gaze becomes not-childishly serious and piercing, as though she is looking through you, examining the very core and finding something inexplicable there. But the feeling passes quickly.

Metha tugs at the edge of Delia’s shirt.

“I like him,” she says.

“Let’s draw him too,” she says.

Delia smiles softly and tilts her head as well. Touches the tip of Metha’s nose with her index finger. Methamosa snorts in a funny little way.

“Only if nobody minds.”

Metha looks at you, makes hilariously pleading little eyebrows, and whispers very loudly, “PLEEEASE, PLEEEASE, PLEEEASE.”

And maybe the cards are simply falling right today, or maybe the universe rolled a critical success on some mythical dice, but for some reason, you agree. You even let them use your paints.

Delia nods gratefully, while Metha joyfully circles the table several times before landing back on her chair.

The sun rings softly as it filters through the leaves. Methamosa chatters without stopping, asking about the details of a student artist’s university life. For some reason, she is interested in completely different things: why you choose those particular brushes, why not sleep until ten in the morning, where paintings go after reviews, what your favorite flowers are and how to weave a flower crown from them… Delia smiles softly and occasionally glances at you while working quickly with pencil and brushes. Everything feels so unreal, strange, and at the same time natural, that all it can bring is a sincere smile. And sometimes—laughter in return.

Eventually, Delia nods with satisfaction and sets the brushes aside.

“Done,” she says, squinting one eye for some reason.

Methamosa peeks over her arm and nods too.

“Turned out good. I mean, I see him differently, but it turned out good.”

Delia raises an eyebrow.

“You can always…”

“…I can,” Metha nods. She throws you a quick glance and flicks the drawing with her index finger.

“That’s better!” she declares with satisfied importance. Delia does not object.

“Well,” she says, “thanks for the company! Come on, Metha, let’s not bother him anymore. Oh, and yes—the drink’s on us.”

“Yes!” Methamosa chimes in. “I liked it a lot too, thank you!”

You do not even have time to ask about the drink, or anything else: they leave the drawing behind, Methamosa takes Delia by the hand, and the two of them walk away together.

Fragments of their conversation drift to you at the edge of hearing.

“And Nima’s coming with us? Please say she got tired of scaring fish and tourists and she’s coming with us, please say…”

“Definitely. Time to save the poor tourists from the pink shark.”

“They’re not poor at all, by the way! And anyway, everybody has their own hobbies, and Nimona said...”

They keep talking about something else, but by then you cannot hear them at all anymore. It feels as though they dissolve into the haze of the sunny day, as though they had never been there.

The drawing before you shimmers with golden light, doubling, doubling, doubling. And it feels as though the world along with it—is doubling too.

The barista places some incredibly delicious seasonal drink in front of you, and when you glance after him, it suddenly seems that his tousled copper hair is crowned with horns covered in countless ornaments.

But you blink, and the vision disappears.

Probably just imagined it.

Or was it?..

1. this will not be fast. i’m still learning and finding my way back into drawing, so my process is quite slow and time-consuming. real life and personal work are also part of the balance.

2. i work from visual references, specifically screenshots. this is important. i need a clear visual base to start from. this project is also about rethinking characters in a slightly different context, so references are just the beginning – we’ll build further together.

3. please don’t expect it to work from just a name and a single image. i care about capturing the feeling of a character, so i will most likely come back with questions.

4. priority will go to people i haven’t drawn for yet. i’ll make a separate post with more detailed info for participants if this goes forward.

and one more small but important note.

please don’t be surprised if i post other works in between. i still have my own projects, and i want to stay connected to them too.