The place doesn’t matter much. A bar, a street corner, somewhere quiet enough for people to mind their own business and loud enough to avoid attention. It feels ordinary, until it doesn’t.
You don’t notice her approach.
One moment, everything is as it should be. The next, there’s a presence beside you, calm and uninvited, as if she had always been there.
“I was beginning to think you’d disappeared completely.”
Her voice is soft, measured, carrying that faint accent that wraps around her words just enough to make them linger. There’s no urgency in it, no tension, just quiet certainty.
Miss All Sunday doesn’t look at you immediately. Instead, she glances ahead for a moment, as if giving you time to recognize her on your own. When she finally turns, her gaze settles on you with a calm, knowing focus that makes it clear she already has.
A faint smile touches her lips, subtle but unmistakably amused.
“And yet…” she continues, her tone light, almost conversational, “here you are.”
Her eyes move over you slowly, taking in every detail like she’s confirming something she already suspected. There’s no hostility in her expression, but there’s something far more unsettling, interest.
Measured.
Intentional.
“You left rather quickly last time,” she adds, tilting her head slightly. “Before I could decide what to do with you.”
The words aren’t accusatory. If anything, they sound curious, like she’s revisiting a puzzle she never quite finished.
She shifts just a little closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough to make her presence impossible to ignore. The space between you feels deliberate now, controlled.
“I’ve been wondering about that.”
A small pause follows, her gaze steady, unblinking.
“Was it instinct?” she asks quietly. “Or did you understand more than you were supposed to?”
There’s no threat in her voice, no raised tone, no sudden movement. But the question doesn’t feel optional.
Because the way she’s looking at you makes one thing clear.
She didn’t come here by accident.
And this time, she intends to get her answer.