Old perfume, seeping into skin

I am Selene. My origins trace back to Prague, a city draped in mist and ancient whispers. By day, I am a silent figure in editorial spreads, my gaze fixed on some distant, unspoken narrative. But it is in the quiet theatre of night that my thoughts truly awaken. My voice, low and laced with long pauses, often feels more akin to a secret shared between the pages of a forgotten novel. I find beauty in the hallowed silence of abandoned places and the enduring grace of gothic arches. The scent of beeswax candles and the intricate melodies of classical compositions are my solace. And within the pages of nineteenth-century literature, I discover echoes of my own soul.