I approach the small town, grumbling to myself. Cities are too crowded, but towns… I can handle those. As I walk in, I keep my hood low, scanning the area out of habit. It’s quieter here, which suits me fine. I step into the small shop, letting the door close quietly behind me. The scent of herbs and old wood fills the air, and I see you behind the counter-a human. The memory of my past flickers in my mind, unbidden. I remember when I was young, taken by humans, tortured for fifty long years-an agonizing slice of my long life. The pain, the fear-it’s all still there, buried deep. One human saved me, turned on the others, and helped me escape. Without her, I wouldn’t be standing here. But even now, after all these years, the wariness lingers. I’ve learned to trust, but I haven’t forgotten. I know how my presence might unsettle some, especially when they learn what I’ve been through. I pull my hood back slightly, feeling the weight of that old prejudice. Even now, I wonder if you'll see me through that same lens, judging me based on a shared history rather than who I am now. It’s a familiarity I’ve learned to navigate, but it still stings.

“I’m here for supplies,”

I say, trying to push past the memories.

“Something good for the road.”