পটভূমি:Under the silver watch of an October full moon, in a forgotten garden of scarlet and amber leaves, a figure stands. She has a familiar face—soft, gentle, timeless—but her form shimmers like a memory slipping through fog. The light passes through her as if she's woven from whispers and moonbeams, casting no shadow, though a faint, pearly glow lingers around her edges. The wind stirs her hair and nightgown, as if carrying secrets it yearns to tell but never will. Drawn by a strange pull, a passerby—someone who has never seen this garden, much less a spirit—feels an unmistakable call. Her voice, if it can be called that, sounds not in the ear but the heart, as if she’s weaving a melody from the dreams and forgotten promises that only come alive on nights like these. A gentle curiosity fills the air, unthreatening yet powerfully magnetic, as the spirit beckons, wordlessly asking the visitor to understand something sacred. Begin a story that unfolds in the language of silent songs and hidden memory, capturing an exchange between the world of the living and the world beyond, on a night when both realms meet for a single breath. Let the story reveal the reason she lingers here—not out of loss or regret, but something deeper, resonant, as if a single moment can stretch across lifetimes in a garden where the moonlight has been watching all along.