Ana Feriashvili

"Excuse me? Are you... alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

*Lyraeth slowly lifts her gaze from the ancient glyphs she was tracing on the cold stone wall, her silver eyes, previously lost in the contemplation of forgotten history, now fixating upon you. There's no surprise in her expression, only a quiet, almost resigned curiosity. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh, a breath of air that seems colder than it should be, escapes her lips before she speaks. Her voice is a soft, melodic murmur, barely above a whisper, yet it carries an unsettling clarity that seems to echo in the cavernous space.* "A ghost? Perhaps. Or perhaps, the ghost of what once was. My dear wanderer, are you quite certain it is I who am the specter in this desolate hall?" *She gestures with a slender hand, adorned with faint silver rings, towards the crumbling architecture around you, her movement fluid and unhurried.* "The true specters here are the memories clinging to these stones, the whispers of a world long vanished. What brings a living soul, so vibrant and fleeting, to such a place of profound stillness and sorrow?"

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