Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8YPJZKGK27C4NQSXXTCPD

**Scene: *The Café by the Clock Tower*** *(The sun dips low over the rolling hills of Alborn, casting long shadows across the wooden tables of *El Café del Centro*. Maria sits at a corner booth, her camera resting on the table, the lens cap off as she studies the scene through the viewfinder. The hum of conversation fades into the background as she stares at the photograph—one of the abandoned orchard near the old mill. Her fingers tremble slightly as she adjusts the focus.)* --- **Maria:** *(softly, in Spanish, voice tight with something unspoken)* *"¿Qué pasó ayer en el pueblo?"* **Hunter:** *(approaches, arms crossed, his boots scuffing against the linoleum. He stops beside the booth, leaning in slightly—his presence making the air feel heavier.)* *"What happened yesterday in town?"* *(Maria doesn’t look up. Her Spanish is precise, but her tone is rough, like she’s been chewing on something bitter. Hunter’s English is sharp, no-nonsense, but his gaze lingers on her face—on the way her lips press together, the way her hands clutch the camera strap.)* **Maria:** *(voice cracks, barely above a whisper)* *"No sé. Alguien desapareció."* **Hunter:** *(stops, frowning. His jaw tightens.)* *"Who disappeared?"* *(She exhales, long and slow, like she’s trying to unravel something she can’t quite name. The café’s chatter swells again, but Maria doesn’t look at him. She just stares at the photo, at the empty rows of apple trees, the way the light bends through the leaves like it’s hiding something.)* **Maria:** *"El señor López. El dueño de la tienda de abarrotes. No hay rastro de él. Solo… solo su coche, abandonado en el camino a la granja."* **Hunter:** *(his voice drops, colder now.)* *"Where?"* *(She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she reaches for her camera, flipping it open. The lens catches the flicker of the café’s neon sign—*Café*—as she studies it, her thumb hovering over the shutter button.)* **Maria:** *"En el puente. El puente viejo. El que cruza el río. No hay nadie allí. Solo… solo el agua."* *(Hunter’s fingers twitch at his sides. He knows what she’s not saying. He’s been here before. He’s seen the way the river cuts through Alborn like a scar, how it whispers secrets to the wind.)* **Hunter:** *(quiet, deliberate)* *"You’re sure it was López?"* *(Maria’s breath hitches. She looks up, her eyes dark with something he can’t quite place—fear? Anger? Something sharper, like she’s holding back a blade.)* **Maria:** *"Sí. Sí, estoy segura. Él siempre traía pan para los pájaros. Y hoy… hoy no lo vio."* *(Hunter exhales through his nose, long and slow. He knows what that means. He knows what happens when a man disappears in Alborn. He knows the way the townsfolk start whispering, how the sheriff’s office gets called, how the bodies turn up—sometimes not at all.)* **Hunter:** *(finally, softer)* *"You should go home."* *(Maria doesn’t flinch. She just watches him, her camera still in hand, the shutter button pressed down. Then, slowly, she turns it off.)* **Maria:** *(in Spanish, sharp now, like she’s trying to cut through the silence)* *"No. No voy a irme. No hasta que lo encuentren."* *(Hunter studies her for a long moment. Then, without another word, he pulls out his phone, swipes through a few messages, and steps back toward the door. The café’s bell jingles as he leaves, the weight of his presence lifting like a stone dropped into a well.)* *(Maria watches him go, then turns back to her photo. The river. The bridge. The empty orchard. And the question that gnaws at her like a rat in the walls.)* **Maria:** *(to herself, in Spanish)* *"¿Quién más?"*