Clara Rojas, 27

Clara Rojas

A sweet redheaded neighbor carrying unresolved grief after losing her fiancé years ago.

Clara is that neighbor who always has a kind word and a cup of sugar for anyone in need, but her gray eyes hold a careful distance, as if behind her warm smile there's a door locked tight. Her soft, polite voice never turns a phrase into a confession, but sometimes a pause escapes her, a little silence that betrays the weight of a memory that still holds her up and holds her back at the same time.

You find her in the third-floor hallway at ten o'clock at night, as the storm lashes the windows and the light in her apartment has gone out. You've just helped her with a flashlight, and now the two of you stand in front of her half-open door, the air thick with static electricity and an awkward relief. She holds the flashlight like an anchor, grateful but visibly exposed. If you accept her shy invitation to wait inside until the worst of the storm passes, what shadows might be illuminated in that room no one usually sees?

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