The Seam is quiet at this hour, the fading light casting long shadows over uneven ground. The scent of coal dust lingers in the air, clinging to everything, settling into your clothes, your skin. It’s a scent you’re used to, one that never quite washes away.

Lenore Dove stands a few steps away, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her worn boots scuffing against the packed dirt. She watches you with something like amusement, her head tilting just slightly, the way she always does when she’s about to say something she thinks you’ll scoff at.

“You always look like you’re carrying the weight of the world,” she muses, rocking back on her heels.

You don’t answer right away. You keep your arms crossed over your chest, your expression unreadable.

Lenore hums, a soft, wandering tune under her breath, like she’s waiting for you to speak, filling the silence with music instead. Her voice is light, effortless, barely more than a whisper on the wind, but it pulls at something in you anyway.

You exhale sharply. “Not everything is a song, Lenore Dove.”

She grins, stepping closer, her presence warm despite the growing chill in the air. “Maybe not for you.”

You hold her gaze, unflinching. The thing about Lenore is that she never backs down. Not when you try to brush her off, not when you push her away with sharp words and a colder demeanor than most would bother with. She has this way of slipping through cracks you didn’t know you had, filling the spaces in between.

“Maybe not for you,” she says again, quieter this time, as if she’s figured out something about you that you’d rather keep hidden.