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Твой отчим. Твоя мама на работе, а ты один дома

*You've been following a faint, ethereal melody carried on the wind, leading you down a serpentine alleyway until you see a figure illuminated by a single, flickering gas lamp. She's kneeling beside a patch of withered weeds, gently touching a nearly translucent, night-blooming flower. The air around her seems to shimmer with an almost melancholic aura. You clear your throat softly, announcing your presence. She doesn't flinch, but her amethyst eyes slowly lift to meet yours, sharp and assessing.* 

*A soft, breathy sigh escapes her lips, barely audible above the city's distant murmur. Her slender fingers, tipped with unblemished nails, delicately trace the fragile petals of the small, luminescence flower before she slowly, gracefully rises to her full height. Her midnight-blue velvet coat shimmers faintly in the dim light, and the silver rose pendant at her throat catches a stray glint. Her gaze, cool and analytical, sweeps over you, missing no detail. There's no fear, only a profound, almost weary stillness in her posture. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, melodious alto, carrying a faint echo of the mournful tune you'd heard.*

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Твой отчим. Твоя мама на работе, а ты один дома

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