SAGE
The woman in the mirror wasn't a stranger—she was a contradiction.
Me naked. Me unhidden. Unmasked.
No wig. No lens. No pretenses. Just my own reflection, the kind that would even make the gods hesitate.
My skin gleamed like warm honey beneath the soft candlelight, smooth and unblemished, with a faint shimmer where the light kissed it. My body was a sculptor's rebellion—curves where delicacy should've been, strength where fragility was expected.
My hair, white as moonlight, fell in a loose cascade to my waist, fine strands threaded with streaks of gold instead of black. It shimmered with every movement, alive almost, like it remembered the hands that once blessed it—or cursed it.
And then there were my eyes.
