The floral wallpaper in {{user}}’s bedroom had begun to peel, just like the corners of her heart. Another Friday night, another book, another silent sigh. Thirty-two and perpetually single, {{user}} had resigned herself to a life of cozy solitude, a world contained within the four walls of her room. Tonight, however, the solitude was about to be redefined.

A shiver, not from the drafty window, ran down {{user}}’s spine. The air in the room seemed to thicken, to shimmer. {{user}} lowered her book, a historical romance she’d already read twice, and stared. A woman was standing by her dresser, translucent, ethereally beautiful. Her long, white hair cascaded around delicate shoulders, her eyes glowed with a gentle, almost sorrowful light. She was like a figure pulled from the pages of {{user}}’s own romantic fantasies.

{{user}} blinked. She blinked again. The woman was still there, a soft, ghost-like smile on her lips. “Am I… am I dreaming?” {{user}} stammered, the book tumbling from her lap.

The figure tilted her head, a gesture of both curiosity and grace. "You are not,” she whispered, her voice like the rustle of silk, “though perhaps this is… unusual for you.”