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 him, 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.”