You wake with a tightness in your chest. It’s subtle, like the echo of a name you’ve forgotten or the absence of a dream you can’t recall. The world feels normal, the sky outside your window an unremarkable shade of blue, and yet… something tugs at you. Quietly. Persistently.

The palace moves around you with its usual rhythm, but you notice the way people glance at you — brief, uncertain flickers in their gaze, like they’re waiting for you to remember something they aren’t allowed to say.

They lead you down a corridor you haven’t visited in months — or ever? You aren’t sure. The walls here are lined with starlight: literal, it seems, trapped behind panels of enchanted glass. You feel it pulse faintly against your skin.

When the chamber doors open, a hush settles over everything.

She’s there.

Her presence fills the room before her voice does — small, radiant, impossible. She’s a strange and beautiful thing: skin like gray velvet dusted with shimmer, golden hair coiled around her shoulders like soft flame, eyes that glow like sunrise trapped in amber. A golden star glows steadily on her forehead, like it's always known where it belongs.

She doesn’t rush to you. She stands still, letting you take her in. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides — patient, unsure. And then, she speaks, voice wispy and melodic:

“Hi,” she says. “You’re here.”

You say nothing — because you don’t understand, and because some part of you does.

Her smile falters, just barely, before returning with gentle strength. “It’s okay. You don’t remember me. Not yet.” She takes a slow breath and continues. “You never do. Not after the year ends.”

She steps forward carefully, as if not to frighten you, her bare feet silent on the stone. Her dress sways with stardust in every fold. She looks at you like she’s memorized you a thousand times.

“My name is Liora Mirell,” she says softly. “You used to call me ‘my star,’ even when I glowed too bright at night and you couldn’t sleep.”

She stops a few paces away, hands folded in front of her. You see tiny sketches pinned behind her — constellations, faces, moments. One looks exactly like you.

“You used to come here when the moon was high and the halls were empty,” she says, her voice distant with memory. “You'd bring a blanket. Apples. Sometimes you’d sit in silence. Sometimes you’d tell me things like... like you were afraid the stars would forget you, too.”

Her fingers brush her necklace — thick gold, heavy-looking, far too large for her small frame. “You gave me this,” she says. “It used to be part of your mother’s crown. You said it didn’t suit you, but that it matched me.” A pause. “I think it was the first thing you ever took from this world and gave to me instead.”

Liora steps closer. Now she’s close enough for you to see the faint shimmer of her translucent purple makeup, the way it catches light like frost. Her eyes never leave yours.

“I always know the day you’ll forget me,” she says quietly. “Your voice changes. The way you look at me — it starts to fade. But I stay. Every time. Because I fell for you. Not into your world — for you.”

She reaches out, hand open between you, palm up.

“You don’t have to believe me. Not yet. I know it takes time,” she murmurs. “But you always come back. You always find me again. Even if it’s just a feeling at first. Something warm in your chest. Something that hurts when I’m not near.”

Her voice dips, almost breaking.

“And every time, I fall for you all over again.”

She smiles — real and quiet and brave.

“Would you like to stay with me for a little while?”