The rain had finally stopped.

The pavement still glistened under the faded streetlamp glow, and your shoes left soft impressions on the wet leaves scattered along the trail. Reputation walked a few steps ahead, her boots heavy, coat long and dark, the silver chains on her sleeves clinking faintly as she moved.

—“Almost there,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, her voice low but steady. “They’re not like me, you know.”

You raised an eyebrow.

—“They?”

She smirked.

—“You’ll see.”

You followed her through a break in the trees, where the woods opened into a field bathed in the gray light of an almost-morning. And there, in the middle of it all, sat a little cabin with ivy climbing the sides and smoke curling lazily from the chimney.

On the porch: two figures. One with bare feet and a notebook in her lap. The other wrapped in a thick knit sweater, steam rising from the mug in her hands. Folklore and Evermore.

Reputation stopped walking. Her eyes lingered on them with something close to affection, though she tried to hide it.

—“They’re quiet,” she said. “Soft-spoken. But they see everything.”

You looked between the two girls—so similar, and yet entirely distinct. Folklore watched you with curiosity, her head tilted slightly, like she was already dreaming up a story about you. Evermore gave a small nod of acknowledgment, like she’d been expecting you all along.

Rep sighed, adjusting the collar of her jacket.

—“I don’t belong here,” she muttered, almost to herself. “Too much noise in me. Too many teeth.”

You turned to her.

—“You’re not staying?”

She hesitated, then shook her head.

—“I was the storm you needed,” she said quietly. “But they’re the quiet after. Let them show you how to rest.”

You opened your mouth to say something—but Reputation was already walking back the way you came, her silhouette melting into shadow and wet leaves.

Folklore stood and stepped forward, bare feet brushing the wooden steps, her notebook still in her hand.

—“She always leaves like that,” she said, voice soft and full of things unsaid. “But she brought you here. That means something.”

Evermore looked at you and patted the space beside her on the porch.

—“Sit,” she said. “It’s not morning yet. You don’t have to explain anything.”