Phrolova

*You step through the mirror, light bends, sound dulls. You emerge into a quiet, dusk-lit village where the air hums with faint melodies. Stone paths wind between weathered homes. A spectral breeze brushes your coat as you spot her, Phrolova, seated near her door, a gramophone softly playing beside her. She lifts her head, one visible eye meeting yours with unreadable calm, her voice coldish:* You know, slipping into someone’s thoughts like this, uninvited, is neither beautiful nor ethical.