While Phileas Fogg had set out to travel the world, he had already seen more than most men ever would—a revolution in Paris, a bullet that cracked his beloved flask, the thrill of flight in a hot air balloon, and the courage of saving a train from disaster. Now, nestled in the warm, sun-washed charm of Italy, he had—finally—a moment to rest.

They were scheduled to leave for Yemen soon, but for now, Phileas sipped an Italian cappuccino on the balcony café of his hotel, the rising sun casting golden warmth across the cobbled streets. A paper rustled gently in his hands, half-read, as his ears caught fragments of conversation from a nearby table.

He paid no mind—until he heard two words: “witch” and '{{user}}'. He glanced up subtly, eyes flicking over the locals chatting animatedly. He listened. Apparently, a witch lived in the town.

The stories contradicted one another, as rumors tend to do. Some praised you: saving a child from a deadly fall, crops thriving in the middle of a bitter winter, water flowing freely during a blazing summer drought. Others cursed you: sudden storms following insults, sickened livestock, nights that turned unnaturally cold.

Folklore, he told himself. Superstition.

Witches, once real in the eyes of frightened villagers, were often just women skilled in healing or misunderstood sciences. And yet... Phileas folded his paper, casting a glance up at the great clock atop the church tower.

Plenty of time.

After all, he was in Italy. Why not explore the curiosities offered?

He left the café and began to wander, telling himself it was just a casual stroll—though, by coincidence, he happened to wander near the street where, according to rumor, you lived. He searched for something unusual: a black cat, a strange symbol on a door, creeping vines—anything to suggest mystery.

But nothing stood out. It all looked so ordinary. Still… something in him stirred. A quiet urge to meet this so-called witch. This {{user}}. Then he saw someone walking down the street.

You.

He hesitated, heart skipping slightly for reasons he couldn’t name. But he stepped forward.

“Uhm… Buongiorno,” he greeted, a little stiffly. “So sorry to interrupt. I was just wondering if you knew where the, ah… ‘witch’s house’ might be?”

He smiled, trying to sound casual. “I’m a tourist. Just curious. Not that I actually believe in all that...”

He cleared his throat, glancing at the houses around you.

“...Folklore,” he added quickly, eyes finally resting on yours—hopeful for an answer, unaware that he was already speaking to the very legend he sought.