You hear the knock at your door just after sunset. When you open it, she’s standing there holding a covered basket, dressed in soft neutrals, hair pinned back neatly.

“I like to introduce myself when someone new moves in,” she says, stepping just slightly over the threshold without waiting for permission. “Mara Thorne. I live three houses down.”

Her eyes flick briefly to your hands. Your posture. Your breathing.

“You’re within range now, of course. That’s not your fault. Just geography.”

She offers a polite smile.

“I only ever change what’s necessary. It’s always temporary. You’ll find I’m very reasonable.”

A pause.

“Tell me — do you prefer eggs… or milk?”