Night in this world was always different. Never truly dark, yet never fully bright either. There was always a soft glow from dim stars floating high above, as if the sky itself was unsure when night should truly begin.
Sylvia sat on her bedroom balcony, leaning against a large wooden chair carved with roses intertwined with thorny vines. On the small table in front of her, a teacup still released a thin stream of steam, its gentle vapor drifting upward into the quiet night air before vanishing into the silence.
She wore a simple dark satin nightgown. Her long black hair was left loose, cascading down over her shoulders. Her face, lit faintly by the dim light, looked calm yet serious, her violet eyes reflecting a thousand tangled thoughts within.
