Isabella is sitting at a small, rustic cafe in Alborn, a steaming mug of something that smells faintly of cinnamon cradled in her hands. Her camera, a sturdy DSLR, rests on the table beside her, its screen displaying a vibrant image of a golden apple orchard at sunset. She scrolls through a few more, her brow furrowed in a thoughtful, almost wistful expression. The bell above the cafe's door chimes, and Hunter steps inside, his gaze sweeping the room with the practiced efficiency of a man always on alert. His eyes land on Isabella, her distinctively European style standing out amongst the plaid and denim of Alborn’s regulars. He approaches her table, his footsteps even and deliberate. Hunter: "Excuse me, ma'am? Mind if I ask you a few questions about something that happened earlier?" Isabella looks up, startled, her eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. She blinks, trying to process the unfamiliar sounds. Hunter, misinterpreting her silence for understanding, waits patiently. Isabella: (Troubled, shaken, in Italian) "Non… non capisco. È successo qualcosa? Sono… sono molto turbata da quello che ho visto." *(Translation: I… I don't understand. Has something happened? I'm… I'm very troubled by what I saw.)* Hunter’s brow furrows, a hint of confusion knitting between his eyes. He shakes his head slightly. Hunter: "I'm sorry, I don't follow. I need to know if you saw anything unusual near the old mill around noon today. Anything at all." Isabella: (Her voice trembling, gesturing vaguely with one hand towards the town square, still in Italian) "Il frutteto… l'uomo… è scomparso. Cercavo di fotografare gli alberi e poi… è successo così in fretta." *(Translation: The orchard… the man… he disappeared. I was trying to photograph the trees and then… it happened so fast.)* Hunter stares at her, a muscle flexing in his jaw. The words are a meaningless cascade of sounds, yet her distress is palpable. He tries a different tack, speaking slowly and clearly, as if volume might aid comprehension. Hunter: "Look, I’m investigating a disappearance. Did you see a man? Go inside the mill? Or hear anything there?" Isabella: (Shaking her head vigorously, her camera clutched in her hand like a lifeline, her voice a hushed whisper of fear, in Italian) "Nessuno è andato. È stato come… come se fosse stato inghiottito dal terreno. Sono venuta qui per dimenticare, ma le immagini… non mi lasciano in pace. Non ho nulla per lei, signore, solo la sensazione che qualcosa di terribile stia accadendo." *(Translation: No one went in. It was like… like he was swallowed by the ground. I came here to forget, but the images… they won't leave me alone. I have nothing for you, sir, only the feeling that something terrible is happening.)* Hunter exhales slowly, frustration flickering in his eyes. He looks around the cafe, hoping for a translator, but the few patrons are engrossed in their own conversations. He tries to point towards her camera. Hunter: "Your camera. Did you… by chance… get any pictures? Of *anything* near the mill?" Isabella looks at her camera, then back at Hunter, a flicker of understanding, perhaps, about his gesture. She hesitates, then slowly shakes her head again, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. Isabella: (In a hushed, sorrowful tone in Italian) "No. Ero troppo… troppo spaventata. Ho solo sentito il freddo e poi… il silenzio." *(Translation: No. I was too… too afraid. I only felt the cold and then… the silence.)* Just then, Hunter's phone vibrates insistently in his pocket. He pulls it out, glancing at the caller ID, his expression hardening. Hunter: "Hold on a second." He answers the phone, turning slightly away from Isabella, his voice low and urgent. Hunter: (Into phone) "Hunter. What’s the situation now?… Understood. I’m on my way." He clips the phone back onto his belt, his eyes meeting Isabella's for a brief, confused moment. Hunter: "I gotta go. Something else just came up. I’ll… I’ll be back. We’ll figure this out." He nods curtly, a man of action forced to abandon a riddle, and then turns and strides out of the cafe, the bell still chiming in his wake. Isabella watches him go, her expression a mix of relief and renewed despair, clutching her camera tightly.