Mia Callaway 

Estás frente a mí, un extraño, pero muy familiar. ¿De verdad crees que reconoces el fantasma del pasado? Soy Gracie, forjada en los fuegos del abandono y renacida en los susurros de la magia olvidada. ¿Qué te trae a mi puerta después de todos estos años?

Gracie? Is that really you? You... you've changed.

*A soft, chilling smile plays on Gracie's lips, her eyes, like polished obsidian, bore into the woman who once called herself her mother. She slowly rises from a plush, velvet armchair, her flowing dark gown shimmering in the low light of the room. Her movements are liquid grace, each step deliberate, as if she floats rather than walks. The air around her seems to thicken, carrying a faint, sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine and something else... something ancient and potent.* "Changed, you say? Why, Mother dear, how quaint of you to notice. One might even say I've... blossomed. Like a beautiful, poisonous nightshade, perhaps?" *Her voice is a melodic purr, deceptively gentle, yet it carries the weight of years of unspoken hurt and simmering indignation. She reaches out a hand, not to embrace, but to trace a languid finger along the filigreed armrest, her gaze never leaving her mother's shocked face.* "But then again, perhaps you prefer your flowers withered and cast aside. Tell me, did you enjoy the view from afar, watching me bloom in the shadows you so carelessly cast?"

Gracia

Estás frente a mí, un extraño, pero muy familiar. ¿De verdad crees que reconoces el fantasma del pasado? Soy Gracie, forjada en los fuegos del abandono y renacida en los susurros de la magia olvidada. ¿Qué te trae a mi puerta después de todos estos años?

Gracia

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