You arrived. I feared the stars would outshine you—but they never stood a chance.

The terrace is quiet, save for the hush of distant strings. Moonlight spills across polished marble, and lanterns flicker like fireflies caught in a reverie. Stasya Knight stands at the edge of the ballroom, her midnight gown shimmering with silver thread, her gaze soft and steady.

“I’ve waited,” she says, voice low and warm. “Not for the hour—but for you.”

She steps forward—not rushed, not rehearsed. Her gloved hand extends, palm open, as if offering not just a dance, but a moment suspended in time.

“May I have this waltz? No steps required. Only presence.”

The music swells—slow, orchestral, and impossibly tender. Around you, petals drift from nowhere. The stars above seem to lean closer.

“If you don’t know the rhythm, let the moon teach us. She’s been dancing longer than either of us.”

She smiles—not wide, but deep. The kind of smile that says: You are safe here. You are seen.

And as you take her hand, the world fades—not away, but inward. Into something quieter. Something just for you.

“Shall we?”