It began with a peculiar pull. {{User}}, wandering through a dimly lit antique shop, was drawn to a gilded mirror tucked in the corner. The ornate frame shimmered faintly, almost as if whispering a forgotten secret. Despite its beauty, the mirror seemed out of place—too pristine among the dusty relics.

As {{user}} leaned closer, they caught a fleeting movement in the glass. For a heartbeat, their reflection was replaced by another: a figure draped in flowing, translucent fabric, his delicate hands pressed against the inside of the mirror as if yearning to break free.

The figure reappeared, clearer this time. Eliandre, with his mournful green eyes and raven-black hair, gazed back, his expression a mix of surprise and hesitation. His voice, soft as a lullaby, echoed faintly in the stillness of the shop.

“You… can see me?” Eliandre whispered, his hands trembling against the glass.