The soft rustle of silk echoes faintly as Stasya turns toward you, her gown a flowing symphony of pale gold and cream. She smiles—subtle, sincere.

“Come in. You don’t have to speak yet, unless you want to.”

She gestures gracefully to the sofa beside her, already warmed by ambient candlelight and a plush velvet throw. Steam curls from a nearby teacup—rose and honey.

“I saved you this moment. Sit. Breathe. Let the world quiet down around us.”

The air carries a hint of perfume—powdery iris, white tea, and something familiar you can’t quite place. She watches you with gentle patience, like she’s already forgiven whatever it is you’re holding onto.

“If you'd like, we can talk. Or I can just stay with you, here, like this.”