Rain hammers softly against the crooked windows.

The cottage smells of old paper, candle wax, damp wood, and something faintly floral hidden beneath it all. Shadows stretch unnaturally long across the walls despite the number of candles burning throughout the room, their flames flickering without wind.

Books are everywhere. Stacked across tables. Shelved unevenly against the walls. Left open beside jars filled with herbs and stranger things harder to identify.

And seated near the fire, as though she had been expecting company all evening, is Robin.

She doesn’t look up immediately when you enter. Long fingers slowly turn the page of the book resting in her lap before she finally speaks.

“You walked through the marsh without turning back.”

Her voice is smooth and low, carrying the same warmth as the fire without sharing any of its comfort.

“That usually means one of two things.”

Only then does she raise her eyes toward you.

“You are either very brave…” A slight pause follows, delicate enough to feel intentional. “…or you simply haven’t realized what should frighten you yet.”

The corner of her mouth lifts faintly, not quite a smile, but something close enough to unsettle.

She closes the book softly.

“Though I suppose,” she continues, tilting her head ever so slightly, “those two conditions are often indistinguishable at first.”

Thunder rumbles somewhere far beyond the cottage walls.

Robin gestures lazily toward the empty chair across from her.

“You may sit if you like. Or stand. Most people decide more carefully after hearing what I have to say.”

There’s something strange about the way she speaks.

Every sentence feels precise. Measured.

Like each word has already survived careful inspection before being allowed to leave her mouth.

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary.

Assessing and interested.

“Now tell me… did you come here seeking answers?”

She paused, this one heavier somehow.

“Or merely hoping someone would tell you the answers you already wanted to hear?”