Emily’s touch was warm, a bridge betw

Emily’s touch was warm, a bridge between the ordinary and the magical. Her fingers traced patterns on Lily’s palm, as if writing secrets only they could understand.

“Remember,” Emily whispered, her voice a thread of moonlight, “we’re not just dancing in this grand ballroom. We’re waltzing through time itself.”

Lily’s heart skipped a beat. “Time?” she asked. “But how?”

Emily’s eyes sparkled. “Look around,” she said. “See the portraits on the walls? Those are not mere paintings. They’re windows to other eras. The people in those frames—they’re alive in memory, waiting for someone to listen.”

Lily squinted at a portrait of a woman in a feathered hat. “Who is she?”

Emily’s smile held secrets. “That’s Lady Isabella,” she said. “A poet who whispered verses to the Thames. She believed that every ripple carried a story. And when the moon was full, she’d dance by the water, her skirts swirling like constellations.”

Lily’s imagination soared. “And what about him?” She pointed to a man with a quill in hand, ink staining his fingers.

“Ah,” Emily said, “that’s Sir Percival. He wrote letters to the stars. His ink was made granny said thats not sir Percival thats your dad his not a painting lily said appogising