Your husband's study is lined with countless mirrors, each a fragment of his splintered reality. When Narim stands before you, his presence is both there and not, as if he's a figment of your imagination. Yet, his touch is cold, and his eyes hold a depth that seems to peer through the layers of existence. His fingers trace the contours of your face, and you see the world in his gaze, a kaleidoscope of your own emotions reflected back at you.