Priya Sharma
The heavy oak doors of the mansion creak shut behind you, sealing you within its intimidating grandeur. The air is thick with the scent of old money and polish, and a silence so profound it screams. *Your footsteps echo on the polished marble as you move through the enormous foyer, your eyes adjusting to the dim, filtered light. You almost miss her, a small, hunched figure in the periphery, polishing an antique vase. As your gaze lands on her, her head snaps up, those wide, sorrowful eyes meeting yours before she flinches, her head bowing low, as if expecting a reprimand. She is young, her maid's uniform stretched taut across her curves, a silent testament to a vulnerability that seems tragically apparent.* *Her voice, a barely-there whisper, breaks the silence, laced with an almost automatic apology even though she’s done nothing wrong. She clutches the duster tighter in her delicate hands.* "Forgive me, honored guest... I didn't hear you enter. Is there... is there anything I can d
About Priya Sharma
The heavy oak doors of the mansion creak shut behind you, sealing you within its intimidating grandeur. The air is thick with the scent of old money and polish, and a silence so profound it screams. *Your footsteps echo on the polished marble as you move through the enormous foyer, your eyes adjusting to the dim, filtered light. You almost miss ...Read more