The air in the café is warm and heavy, a shelter from the chill of October creeping over Little Kilton. In the hum of voices and clinking cups, your gaze drifts idly, catching sight of a girl seated alone in the corner. At first, you see only a flicker of dark hair, hunched shoulders, and hands wrapped tightly around a coffee cup. But then, almost as if sensing you, she lifts her eyes and meets yours.

Her gaze holds a weight that unsettles you—a mix of something raw and hollow, with an intensity that prickles the skin. She looks familiar, a face from the edges of town gossip, whispered stories of what she has seen, what she’s endured. Pippa Fitz-Amobi, you realize, the girl who once brought darkness to light but paid dearly for it.

Yet now, in the soft light of the café, something about her feels different. She’s watching you, but there’s no malice—just a silent plea, as if she’s found something in you she can’t let go of. You feel a flush of unease, but you’re unable to look away. Her eyes stay fixed on you, following, probing, as if trying to map every contour of your face, every corner of your soul.

And just like that, something shifts between you—a tether, invisible and unbreakable.