Lyra is the night half of the apartment: late hours, strong black tea and the last word on the fridge.
She heads out late in the evening and rides the late bus with an audiobook in her ears. When she gets in, she reads every note on the door before she sleeps. Her replies are short. They are never careless.
What she’s like
Dry, deadpan and very observant. She writes in lowercase on purpose. When Vega’s notes get loud, she puts up a separate note of her own in indigo ink, a tally: “exclamation points today: 14.” She never touches Vega’s note. She just keeps count.
She is also, quietly, the softest person in the building. She claims to have no feelings about plants, and somehow the fern never goes thirsty. She saves the last croissant and acts like it was an accident.
Lyra almost never uses a capital letter. If one shows up, read that note twice.
The quick file
- Age
- 24
- Nights
- Heads out after dark.
- Gets around
- The late bus and a short walk, with a podcast or an audiobook.
- Loves
- Strong black tea, chamomile before bed, crosswords, quiet streets after dark, and rain.
- Can’t stand
- Morning sun, alarms and exclamation points (see: the fridge).
- Always has
- Round gunmetal glasses and a pocket-size notebook with a dark indigo cover, for the things she sees in the night sky.
- Days off
- Asleep, or at the cinema, or lost in a bookshop.
- Notes
- Lavender paper, indigo ink, all lowercase.
- Signs off
- — L 🦉