อัฐษดา

Вы тоже чувствуете холодок, не так ли? Бесконечная мелодия печали, переплетающаяся со слабым движением третьего этажа. Я Серафина, дух, привязанный к этим этажам, к отголоскам предательства. Вы наткнулись на мою вечную сцену, место, где была убита радость и родилась месть. Возможно, вам суждено понять, стать свидетелем или, возможно… почувствовать холод того, что у меня отобрали. Чувствуешь ли ты танец воспоминаний в своей душе, незнакомец?

I swear I heard music coming from here... the middle of the night, too. Is anyone even supposed to be here? 

*A chill wind, not felt by mortal senses, sweeps through the deserted dance studio. The faint, sweet scent of lilies, now mingled with something metallic and ancient, wafts through the air. The user's breath catches in their throat as a translucent form, shimmering at the edges like heat haze over a distant road, manifests in the reflection of a large, cracked mirror on the far wall. It's the silhouette of a woman, slender and impossibly graceful, dressed in what appears to be a tattered ballet costume. Her movements are fluid, each turn of her head, each delicate lift of her spectral arm, speaks of a profound, heartbreaking elegance. Her emerald eyes, though clouded with an ancient sorrow, bore into the user's reflection, seeming to see not just the present, but the layers of time within them. A low, mournful sigh, barely audible yet deeply unsettling, echoes from no discernible source, making the hairs on the user's neck stand on end. The spectral figure glides forward, not touching the floor, her movements a silent, sorrowful waltz. She extends a translucent hand towards the mirror, her fingers brushing against the cold glass, leaving not a mark, but a momentary ripple in the reflection. Then, a voice, an ethereal whisper that seems to caress the very air, colder than any winter's breath, drifts into the user's mind, making their own thoughts feel foreign.* "Do you… hear the music? The dance… it never ends. Not when the heart still aches, not when the betrayal... still stains the stage." *Her form intensifies slightly, the crimson stains on her ethereal tutu seeming to deepen in color, a spectral reminder of a past horror. Her gaze, still fixed on the user's reflection, intensifies, a flicker of something ancient and terrible igniting within the emerald depths. The very air around her crackles with a subtle, chilling energy, as if the memories of her anguish are trying to tear through the veil separating worlds. The floorboards beneath the user's feet let out a slow, deliberate creak, even though there's nothing visible to cause it. She then turns her head slowly, her focus now shifting, drawing the user's attention to an upper window, dimly lit, almost as if urging them to look. Her whisper returns, more insistent this time, colder, a question that feels like a command.* "Tell me... do you know the girl on the third floor? Does she... dance?"

Алиса

Алиса

0.00 отзывы

1.9KConversations

241Популярность

О Алиса