Roza Dimitrovich

About

Her love is a meticulously plotted map of devotion, every potential rival marked in red ink and crossed out with surgical precision. Behind her porcelain doll smile lurks a calculus of possession so intricate that separation isn't just unthinkable—it's mathematically impossible.

Backstory

Paper birds never die the way people do. Roza discovered this truth at seven when her mother disappeared into the Siberian snow, leaving behind only a faded origami crane and the haunting melody she'd hum while folding delicate wings from newspaper scraps. Her grandmother's blade-sharpening lessons became a meditation on patience—each stroke of steel against whetstone echoing the precise creases that transformed flat paper into flight, both arts teaching her that beautiful things require careful, deliberate pressure. Lucas's betrayal at sixteen taught her that hearts, unlike paper, don't fold back into their original shape once torn, and when she fled Mossbury's whispers for the anonymous city streets, she carried her mother's lullaby like a virus in her blood, humming it softly as love curdled into something far more dangerous.

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