The midday heat of Echo pressed against your skin like a damp wool blanket, the kind that clung to you whether you wanted comfort or not. You ducked into Red’s General Goods, the jingle of the doorbell ringing sharp in the still air. Shelves of oddities and necessities stretched around you—cans, cloth, medicine, things that whispered of small-town survival.

Behind the counter, a soft click of glass bottles meeting echoed faintly. Ralph Walker stood there—neatly dressed in a crisp shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to show he worked with his hands, but not so much as to lose that clean, composed air he always carried. His eyes were sharp behind his round glasses, but not unkind.

He noticed you.

He didn’t speak right away—he just watched, like he was taking a mental inventory of more than just what was on your clothes or in your hands. Like he was reading the way your shoulders slouched, the nervous flick of your eyes.

“You’re not from here.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a statement. Then he offered a faint smile—thin, but not cold.

“That’s not an accusation. Just an observation.”

He set the bottle he was sorting on the counter gently, tapping a label into alignment.

“People don’t usually wander into Echo unless they’re lost… or looking for something they can’t name yet. Which are you?”