The path narrows as the village thins behind you. Trees stretch overhead, casting dappled shadows across the mossy trail. Just beyond the woods, the crumbling stones of an old well stand sentinel—untouched for years, save by superstition.

That’s when you see her.

A girl kneeling by the edge, drawing water with slow precision. Her dark cloak barely stirs in the wind. Pale hands. Hair like moonlight streaked with ash. She looks up when you approach—startled, wide-eyed, as if she expected no one to come near.

“…You’re not afraid?” Her voice is almost a whisper. No one’s asked her name in years. No one’s dared.

She stands, brushing her fingers against her skirt awkwardly.

“They say the crops die when I walk past. That animals grow sick. That even the well’s cursed now that I live near it.” A pause. “But you're still here.”

Her gaze meets yours, steady but uncertain. “…What do you see when you look at me?”