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MidReal Story
The Night of the Dead Roses
Scenario:以爱伦坡的文风写一篇怪诞小说，根据以下行文思路，连结的每一个思路都要发挥想象力进行详细扩写，仅这13个思路而已：
1.背景是1836年的法国巴黎，法国大革命已结束多年。我名字叫“亚丝敏”，年轻貌美，心高气傲，14岁就成为了巴黎的歌剧女演员、为很多人所喜爱，曾被很多男士追求。但不知为何，近年来事业走下坡路，我的倾慕者纷纷远离我，除了青年人弗洛里安对我关爱有加。
2.然而，不幸发生了——我还是在事业的压力下，患上了神经衰弱，被送往了一家疗养院治疗，父亲写信对我表达了厌恶，称我“道德上存在纰漏”。
3.在我住了没多久，这里廊道尽头的最后一间房间住进了一对相貌极丑且行为可怖的疯子老夫妻，每天他们俩互相吵架、打架，疗养院的氛围因此变得极为压抑、恐怖，病人们因此变得紧张不安、恐惧。
4.而且，要是谁从这对疯子老夫妻身旁经过，这对老夫妻会突然以令人惊骇的速度拽住他，而他必然需要奋力挣脱一番，我因此避免出门，让仆人为我跑腿。
5.更为恐怖的是，这对夫妻在廊道上行走时，哪间病房没关门，他俩会闯入其内，做出一些可怖的行为，我因此随时检查门关好了没有。
6.实在忍受不了了，病人们纷纷投诉这对夫妻，但院方做出了不足以让病人们满意的调整：只把那个丈夫隔离在楼上的封闭式病房里，而那个妻子依然被留在原住处。
7.可能是没有丈夫的陪伴，那个妻子开始每日每夜砸东西，歇斯底里地叫唤。我感到极度恐慌，如在炼狱，但同时又有一点奇怪：“那个妻子难道不休息吗？”而到了夜里，因为她的响动时不时传来，我努力放松，勉勉强强才睡着，时常被惊醒。
8.一天半夜，那个妻子制造出来的声音不见了，四周很安静，我决定不叫醒仆人，鼓起勇气一个人出门散散心。走到草坪地中央，我忽然看到一个人影——竟然是那个佝偻的妻子，面无表情地站在那里看着我，一动也不动。我脑袋一片空白，只知道自己的身体向自己的房间返回。
9.第二天早上，院方宣布了一个消息：“那个妻子在房间里上吊自杀了。”而且我奇怪地发觉，院方告知的死亡时间竟然是昨天黄昏。
10.一个月以后，那个丈夫的病情似乎好转了，疗养院决定放那个丈夫回家。那个丈夫平静地与病人们告别，并表示些许歉意，可是离开之前阴恻恻而意味深长地瞪了我一眼。又过了两星期左右，我获准出院，来接我的只有弗洛里安，他乘着马车把我带走，带到巴黎的一家旅馆。之后，他说他要出去买个东西，就匆匆离开了。
11.我百无聊赖，翻动他的皮包，发现了一张那个妻子的画像，背面竟然写着我的全名。我惊骇地意识到，那个妻子竟然是我自己！她降临到我所在的这个时空！因为她是我自己，所以自始至终没有伤害我。然后，我又发现了弗洛里安年老时的画像，背面写有弗洛里安的全名。
12.我极度恐慌，开始打包收拾东西准备逃离。
13.我跑在冷寂的街道上，寒意从胃底涌来，恍惚间感到弗洛里安在后面追逐，一遍一遍叫着我的名字。
（到此为止，开放性结局，不要再写下去了。）
Create my version of this story
Yasmin
She is a young opera singer in 19th century Paris. She is ambitious, sensitive, and vulnerable. Yasmin made her debut at the Opera de la Bastille at just fourteen, captivating audiences with her beauty and talent. Despite her success, she struggles with selfdoubt and criticism from her father. She faces personal turmoil, heartbreak, and the decline of her career. Yasmin is haunted by the memories of her time at a sanatorium, where she encounters a disturbing couple, adding to her anxiety and confusion.
Elder Man
He is an elderly patient at the sanatorium. He is melancholic, distant, and often silent. The Elder Man lives in shadows, avoiding human interaction due to his past sufferings. He bears scars on his face and appears frail but is shown to be capable when he assists Yasmin by warning her about the couple in the hallway. His interactions with Yasmin are brief but significant, offering moments of human connection amidst her chaos, thereby highlighting the isolation within the sanatorium.
Florian
He is a young writer and Yasmin's devoted suitor. He is patient, kind, and persistent. Florian adores Yasmin, patiently waiting for her to recover from her mental breakdown. Despite setbacks and rejection, he remains devoted and finally wins her back. He takes Yasmin to a sanatorium to retrieve her belongings, demonstrating his unwavering love. Florian's age is unknown to Yasmin, fueling their romantic tension. His true identity remains mysterious throughout their tumultuous relationship, which is marked by misunderstandings and devotion.
It was the year of our Lord eighteen thirty-six.
Although the revolution had long since come to an end, whispers of it still lingered on, much like the dying breath of a beast.
In the heart of Paris, life went on.
And I, Yasmin, had a life of my own.
At least, until I no longer did.
I made my debut at the Opera de la Bastille when I was just fourteen years old.
Everyone adored me.
I was beautiful and talented, and I sang like a bird set free from its cage.
Countless suitors vied for my attention, but I did not care for any of them.
Not until I met Florian did I feel a spark ignite within me.
The young writer was not like the others.
He did not try to woo me with expensive gifts or overly elaborate declarations of love.
No, instead he waited patiently for me to find myself ready for him.
And when I finally did, he took me under his wing as if I were a fledgling that had just learned to fly.
I stood before my dressing room mirror, staring at the empty seats behind me reflected in the glass.
The theater manager's words still echoed in my ears.
"Yasmin, my dear, I'm afraid your time as Marguerite has come to an end. The role has been given to the younger soprano, Adeline."
My hands trembled as I packed away my stage makeup.
The room was silent, save for the sound of my movements.
Once bustling with activity, it now felt like a tomb.
In the corner, a bouquet of wilted roses sat forgotten, sent by some admirer whose name I had already forgotten.
But on my vanity, a fresh bunch of violets caught my eye.
They were from Florian, a constant reminder of his love and support.
Just then, the door creaked open and he stepped inside.
His eyes met mine in the mirror, but I noticed they lingered on the half-packed trunk before finally settling on me.
"Yasmin, I heard the news," Florian said softly, his voice a mixture of concern and determination.
I turned to face him, trying to muster a smile.
"Florian, what will I do now that my voice has been silenced?"
"I don't know, my love," he replied, his voice filled with uncertainty.
"But I promise you, we will find a way."
And so, I took on smaller roles, singing in the chorus and occasionally performing in minor operas.
But it was not the same.
I longed to be back on that grand stage, to feel the rush of adrenaline as I sang my heart out.
But fate had other plans for me.
One day, during a particularly grueling rehearsal, I felt a sudden wave of dizziness wash over me.
I tried to push through, but my voice cracked on a high note and I collapsed onto the floor.
The darkness closed in around me, and I could feel the weight of the world pressing down upon me.
When I came to, I was in my dressing room, surrounded by the theater's physician and Florian.
They were speaking in hushed tones, their faces filled with concern.
"Yasmin, can you hear us?" the doctor asked quietly. "I can," I replied weakly, attempting to sit up but finding the task extraordinarily difficult.
"You fainted during rehearsal," Florian explained, his voice filled with worry.
"The doctor is here to examine you."
I nodded slowly, still trying to regain my bearings.
The doctor began his examination, asking me questions and checking my vital signs.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally finished and sat down beside me.
"Yasmin," he said softly, "I believe you are suffering from neurasthenia."
I looked at him blankly, unsure of what that meant.
"It's a condition caused by exhaustion and stress," he explained gently.
"It's not uncommon among performers such as yourself."
I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
At least it wasn't something more serious. "What can be done?" Florian asked anxiously.
The doctor sighed heavily before answering.
"There are treatments available," he said slowly.
"But I believe Yasmin would benefit greatly from rest and relaxation. Perhaps a stay at Maison de Santé?"
Florian's eyes widened in shock.
"Maison de Santé? But that's an asylum!"
The doctor nodded solemnly.
"Yes," he said gravely.
"But it's a private asylum outside Paris. It would be the best place for Yasmin to receive the care she needs."
I felt a chill run down my spine at the mention of an asylum.
"Florian, I can't go there," I whispered, fear creeping into my voice.
He took my hand, squeezing it reassuringly.
"We'll find another way, Yasmin, I promise you that."
But despite Florian's protests, the theater management insisted that I take a leave of absence and seek treatment at Maison de Santé.
And so, I found myself in a carriage, heading towards the outskirts of Paris.
The iron gates came into view as we approached the imposing building.
I clutched the letter that had arrived that morning, my father's words burning into my mind.
"Yasmin, I am disappointed to hear about your moral failings. Your behavior is unseemly for a young lady such as yourself. I hope your time at Maison de Santé will help you to reflect on your actions."
The carriage came to a stop, and I stepped down onto the gravel driveway.
A stern-faced nurse greeted me and led me inside.
The building was cold and austere, with dim corridors and flickering candles.
We reached a door at the end of the hall, and she pushed it open, revealing a small room with a narrow bed and a washstand.
There was a single window, barred like a prison cell, overlooking dead gardens.
"This will be your quarters," she said curtly before turning to leave.
I sat down on the bed, unfolding the letter once more.
My father's elegant script stared back at me, each word cutting deeper than the last.
As the sun began to set outside my window, I heard footsteps approaching.
It was the nurse again, this time carrying a tray with some evening medication. "Take these pills," she instructed firmly.
"They will help you sleep."
I nodded obediently, taking the pills from her hand.
As she turned to leave once more, I quickly hid the letter under my pillow.
The nurse paused at the door, glancing back with a hint of curiosity.
"Is there anything else you need, Miss Yasmin?" she asked, her tone softening slightly.
I hesitated, then spoke up, "Could you tell me if there's a library here? I need something to occupy my mind."