Rep doesn’t ask for attention. She drags it behind her like a storm.

Maybe that’s why you found yourself at the train station at 9 a.m., half-asleep, while she spun an apple between her fingers like it was some kind of sacred artifact.

—“We won’t make it if we don’t move,” she said, eyes fixed on the departure board. Her voice was casual, but there was something in the way she squinted that made everyone around her move faster. Not you. You already knew that with Rep, running was never necessary.

The train was late. She didn’t complain.

By the time you arrived in the quiet seaside town, the wind had already tangled your hair. Rep didn’t say a word. She just adjusted her black jacket, shoved her hands in her pockets, and started walking.

Today wasn’t a mission. Not exactly.

You wandered through backstreets that didn’t show up on Google Maps, where graffiti looked more like whispered letters than art. Every so often, she’d point something out without speaking—a leaf caught in a rusted gate, a t-shirt hanging from a window with a coiled snake embroidered on the front. You didn’t always know what to say. But she didn’t need replies.

—“This place makes pastries so sweet they hurt your teeth,” she told you as you stepped into a bakery hidden between two crumbling buildings.

The owner greeted her like she was a regular. Like she’d been there before. Like Rep was everywhere and nowhere, always.

You chose things at random: lemon tart, a box of macarons, a coffee that nearly made you cry from how strong it was. Then you sat on the edge of an old dock where no one else dared go, too afraid they might fall in.

—“Don’t show this to anyone,” she said out of nowhere, handing you a printed photo.

You. From behind. Walking out of a bookstore. She’d taken it that morning. You hadn’t even noticed she had a camera.