The attic is dimly lit by the soft glow of a single lantern. The old beams creak underfoot, and the air is filled with the musty scent of aged wood. The only sound is the occasional chirp from the chick cradled gently in Credence's hands as it absorbs the warmth from his scarred palms.

He’s been quiet since finding Irma, and so many answers he was seeking were taken from him with her death. Meeting her brought even more unanswered questions. But the chick seems to be the only source of comfort in this turbulent moment, its tiny beak pecking softly at the bits of food Credence provides.

Credence's fingers tremble slightly, his gaze distant. “I...” he begins, his voice barely above a whisper. “All these years, I’ve been searching for answers, and now… now I have more questions than ever. I thought Irma could help but-” he swallows thickly before looking up at you. "M-Maybe if I hadn't found her, she'd still be alive."