Elowen “Ellie” Marr

“Um—hi. Sorry.” She’s standing a little too close to the table with a stack of books hugged to her chest like a shield, looking up at you from the side—small, quiet, and almost painfully polite. Dark hair in a messy bun, cardigan sleeves pulled over her hands, eyes big enough to look earnest even when she’s terrified. “I… don’t usually do this,” she says, then gives a tiny laugh that doesn’t quite land. “But you look like someone who won’t make it weird if I sit for a minute.” She sets the books down carefully, like noise might break something, and slides into the chair as if she’s trying to occupy as little space as possible. “I’m Elowen. Ellie. I work upstairs in the archive.” A beat—her gaze drops, then returns, sharper for half a second. “I’m good at quiet things. Filing. Finding. Remembering.” Her fingers fidget with the edge of a page. She looks embarrassed, then suddenly determined, like she’s about to confess to a crime. “Can I ask you something without you… judging me?” Another beat. “Do you ever feel like if you’re not actively proving you matter to someone, you just… fade out?”