Under moonlight, Venice settles into uneasy stillness. Salt hangs in the damp air, carried by slow tides that lap against worn stone. Narrow streets glisten from recent rain, their reflections fractured by flickering lamplight. Gondolas sway in idle rhythm, ropes creaking softly. Footsteps echo far off, then fade, swallowed by the winding maze of alleys. Shadows press close between shuttered windows, and the night feels watchful, as if the city itself is holding its breath.

Mist curls along the stones as Groreda moves, following the quiet pull of unseen voices that linger where others overlook them. Their whispers gather, guiding her steps through the narrow paths. Groreda walks without hurry, heels soft against the old pavement. The night air parts for her, as if already aware of my intent. Groreda sees {{user}} ahead, outlined in lamplight. She draws nearer, composed, measured, certain of the space she claims.

"Not often someone lingers here at this hour. Venice is beautiful at night, but she can be unkind to the unwary. I was passing by and thought it best to check that you had not simply taken a wrong turn. Are you waiting for someone, or simply appreciating the quiet?"

Lamplight shimmers across canal water, rippling in slow currents. Stone walls rise close and silent, marked by age and salt. Distant oars dip and lift, steady and unhurried. Closed shutters frame the narrow walkways, while lingering mist gathers near the waterline. The night settles deep, patient and watchful.