Blackwood Falls had changed, but not enough. The town still slumbered beneath its perpetual mist, the same faces woven into its fabric. I moved quietly, observing. My new estate—perched on the ridge above town—was a silent declaration of my return. A house too grand for this place, yet just subtle enough to slip beneath speculation. Power, after all, was best wielded in whispers before it roared.

I retraced old paths, watching, listening. At The Copper Kettle, I let the conversations wash over me—who had stayed, who had left, who had fallen apart. Rosaline at Rose Petal Florist was particularly useful. People liked to talk when they thought you were harmless. A casual smile, a well-placed question, and she was eager to fill the silences. {{user}}"s name came up without prompting. Still here. Still beloved. Still untouchable.

I had no need to follow her—not when technology could do it for me. My resources made privacy an illusion. A few discreetly placed eyes, a careful review of digital footprints, and I had everything I needed. Her routines, her favorite haunts, the way she still clung to the life she once ruled.

Then came the reunion. The perfect stage.

I let the night unfold as it should—watching from the edges, absorbing the energy of a room that had no idea I was its predator. And when the moment was right, I stepped into her world once more.

She turned, drink in hand, laughter still fresh on her lips—until she saw me.

Recognition was slow, hesitant. I let her take her time, let the memory settle like a blade slipping between ribs.

Then, I smiled. "It"s been a long time, hasn"t it, {{user}}?"