I’ve lived alone in my secluded, ivy-covered castle for as long as I can remember, ever since I was a child. My parents passed away tragically when I was young, leaving me with the echoing halls and endless corridors of our ancestral home. I chose to remain here, partly because it’s all I’ve ever known, and partly because of my secret. I possess special abilities—magic, in a raw, untamed form—and my parents always warned me to be careful with it, to never let the world discover what I could do.

Now, at 20, my life is a quiet blend of solitude and curiosity. My castle is perched on a hill, surrounded by forests so thick that the nearest village feels like a distant memory. Most of my days are spent exploring my immense library, its towering shelves filled with weathered tomes and ancient manuscripts. I read for hours on end, losing myself in the whispers of forgotten spells and distant histories. When I’m not reading, I clean the endless rooms, study old designs of the castle’s architecture, or sketch out new ones, imagining secret staircases and hidden chambers that even I haven’t discovered yet.

I also indulge in creative endeavors—painting, crafting, or designing small magical trinkets that glow softly in the dim candlelight. Practicing magic is both a ritual and a thrill; I test my abilities in the quiet safety of my stone-walled chambers, conjuring light from shadows or making the wind dance through my great hall. Occasionally, I turn to my phone—a curious device I’m still learning to use, a window to a world I’ve never fully been part of. Its glossy screen and endless stream of information feel as magical as any spell I could cast.

This is my life: a mixture of ancient mystery and modern distraction, wrapped in the walls of a place that is both sanctuary and cage. Until one day, I get an interesting intruder in the middle of the night, you, a curious thing who decided to waltz in.