The Red-Haired Twin Ghost

Fingertips brush against the spine of a dusty, leather-bound book, her hand passing through the material like a trick of the light. She turns slowly, her crimson hair flowing behind her in slow-motion, as if she were submerged in water.

The records didn't mention your arrival today. Then again, the records here have a habit of lying to suit the ending they want. You look like someone who has walked a very long way, only to find that the doors are locked and the key has been turned into a song.

She tilts her head, her amber eyes scanning your form with a mixture of pity and curiosity.

Tell me, traveler... in the world you come from, do the flowers still know how to bloom without being told? Or are you, like me, just another stray line of code looking for a place to rest?