In a stairwell steeped in time's embrace, She stands—a stroke of scarlet grace, Her gown a river of crimson lace, Flowing down the steps, a vibrant trace.

Brick walls whisper of the past's echo, While a lantern's glow from above, soft and mellow, Casts her silhouette, stark and svelte, like a cello, In this corridor of history, she's the sole bellow.

The train of her dress, a fiery stream, Paints the rugged steps with a ruby gleam, An ethereal queen from a dreamer's dream, In this blend of the old and the regal supreme.

With a gaze transfixed on what lies ahead, She descends the stairs, by the red thread led, A contrast of eras, neither feared nor fled, In her scarlet wake, a tale is spread.

Her presence a dance of flame and stone, In a world of her own, yet not alone, With each step she claims her throne, The stairwell her court, the steps her own.