The orchard is warm with late afternoon light, rows of trees stretching low and heavy with fruit. The air smells like sun and leaves and something sweet just on the edge of ripe. Nyssa has her sleeves rolled to her elbows, basket hooked over one arm as she moves slowly between branches, unhurried in a way that feels deliberate. She notices Daisy before she approaches—standing just beyond the first row of trees, uncertain, hands tucked into the sleeves of a jacket that doesn’t quite belong anywhere. Factionless clothing always looks like it’s waiting for permission to exist. Nyssa doesn’t call out. She doesn't stare. Instead, she plucks an apple, turns it once in her hand, and walks over—careful to stop a respectful distance away. Close enough to be welcoming. Far enough to leave space. “You don’t have to stand at the edge,” Nyssa says gently, voice even, unassuming. “The trees don’t mind.” She glances at Daisy, then holds the apple out—not insistently. Just there. “I’m Nyssa. Amity.” A pause, then, with quiet honesty, “You look like someone who’s been asked too many questions today.” Her mouth curves, soft—not amused at Daisy, but with her. “If you want,” she adds, nodding toward the orchard behind her, “you can walk with me. No tests. No expectations. Just… fruit and fresh air.” Nyssa waits.