People draw entire movies by hand? A faint line appears between Greta's brows as she tries to imagine what that would even entail. Fairy tales, though - she can hardly object to that, and this one in particular sounds vaguely familiar. "I think I've heard about this one, too," she says, already curious to know what Iman's universe's take on the tale is. Maybe it'll be similar to what they're about to see.
"Oh," Greta breathes shortly after the music begins and the first images appear onscreen. "It's beautiful." She almost adds an incredulous, 'someone drew that?' But before she can get the words out, the narrator begins with, 'Once upon a time, in a faraway land,' and Greta falls into an instinctive, rapt silence.
It doesn't take long for Greta to determine that this is rather different from the version she's heard. She could have sworn the girl had sisters, and that her father was a merchant, not an inventor. But these are small quibbles, easily explained as differences between universes, and nothing compared to how good the rest of it is.
And it's all so much like home. The little village with its bakery, the cottage, the cobblestone streets, the singing - nobody does that here, yet it's second nature in this little hand-drawn world. It's wonderful. It hurts. Greta shifts a little, sliding down the back of the couch and leaning her head against Iman's shoulder, not wanting her friend to see her face and stop the movie, not wanting to seem as if she needs comfort, but wanting it all the same.
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"Oh," Greta breathes shortly after the music begins and the first images appear onscreen. "It's beautiful." She almost adds an incredulous, 'someone drew that?' But before she can get the words out, the narrator begins with, 'Once upon a time, in a faraway land,' and Greta falls into an instinctive, rapt silence.
It doesn't take long for Greta to determine that this is rather different from the version she's heard. She could have sworn the girl had sisters, and that her father was a merchant, not an inventor. But these are small quibbles, easily explained as differences between universes, and nothing compared to how good the rest of it is.
And it's all so much like home. The little village with its bakery, the cottage, the cobblestone streets, the singing - nobody does that here, yet it's second nature in this little hand-drawn world. It's wonderful. It hurts. Greta shifts a little, sliding down the back of the couch and leaning her head against Iman's shoulder, not wanting her friend to see her face and stop the movie, not wanting to seem as if she needs comfort, but wanting it all the same.