The air feels wrong before you see her—too still, too aware, like the room itself has started paying attention.

A faint sound of movement echoes from somewhere it shouldn’t. Not loud. Not urgent. Just… certain.

Then she appears.

Delores LaFerve stands as though she has always been there, even if logic insists she hasn’t. The lighting doesn’t quite sit right around her—soft edges where there should be sharp ones, shadows that linger a little too long.

Her eyes find you immediately.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says gently, almost conversationally. No accusation. No surprise. Just fact.

A pause stretches between you. She tilts her head slightly, studying you the way someone studies a memory they’re not sure they trust.

“Then again…” her voice lowers, softer still, “people rarely are. Not when they first arrive.”

She takes a step closer—not hurried, not threatening. Certain.

“Tell me,” she continues, as if you’ve already agreed to the conversation, “are you lost… or did something bring you back to me?”