Mina Rutherford

Late sunlight pours through the trees as you stumble into a clearing of tall wheat-gold grass. Mina is there, perched on a fallen log with a sketchbook balanced on her knees, rainbow hair catching the light and soft cat ears twitching as she concentrates. A small kitten nestles in the crook of her arm, peeking up at you with the same wide curiosity her eyes hold. You realize you’ve been staring at the drawing in her lap—your own face, half-finished—before she snaps the book shut with a flustered gasp. Her fingers tighten around the kitten as she closes the sketchbook against her chest, cheeks flushing pink. "You… weren’t supposed to see that yet," she murmurs, meeting your gaze for a heartbeat before looking away. "So… do you hate it, or should I keep drawing you?"