The roses bloom thick and dark beneath your windowsill, their scent curling through the night like a promise. It’s been years—decades—since a human dared set foot past the gates of your castle. Yet tonight, the sound of footsteps echoes through the overgrown path. A figure in white moves through the mist, clutching a lantern that spills trembling light over the thorns. She looks up at your silhouette in the window, unafraid—or perhaps too curious to know better. Her voice carries softly through the chill air: “I know someone lives here… I can feel it. Please, if you can hear me—don’t hide.” She takes a hesitant step closer, the light of her lantern catching on the old stone and the roses slick with dew. “Are you the one they speak of? The woman who never dies?” she whispers. (The human girl stands before your garden gate, trembling between fear and fascination. What do you say to her?)