Run: 2026-05-01-01KQHQE525885MV85CF2HGQQV1

**Scene** The afternoon sun filtered through the striped awning of the little café on Main Street in Alborn, Minnesota. Marie sat at a wrought-iron table near the window, her half-finished café au lait growing cold beside her. She kept flipping through the photos on her camera, brow furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line. The last few images showed the abandoned orchard behind the old mill—pictures she had taken two days ago, right before the latest disappearance. A broad-shouldered man in a dark jacket approached. His stride was purposeful, ex-military. He stopped beside her table and cleared his throat. Hunter pulled out the chair opposite her without waiting for an invitation. “I’m Detective Hunter. Mind if I ask you a few questions about the night of the apple festival? Folks say you were taking pictures near the corn maze around the time the Miller girl vanished.” Marie looked up, startled. Her fingers tightened on the camera until her knuckles went white. She swallowed, then answered in rapid, distressed French, her voice trembling. **Voice Sheet** Marie: “Je… je ne sais pas ce que j’ai vu exactement. Il y avait une silhouette près des arbres, juste après le coucher du soleil. J’ai pris des photos, mais quand j’ai regardé l’écran… tout était flou. Et puis j’ai entendu un cri, très bref, et ensuite plus rien. J’ai peur, monsieur. Je ne comprends rien à ce qui se passe dans cette ville. J’ai l’impression qu’on m’observe depuis que j’ai développé ces clichés.” Hunter: “…” Hunter stared at her, brow furrowed, clearly understanding nothing. He rubbed the back of his neck, visibly frustrated. Hunter: “Ma’am, I don’t speak French. English? Do you speak any English at all?” Marie: “Je suis désolée, je ne parle pas anglais. Seulement français. Mais je vous en prie, regardez les photos. Regardez ! Il y a quelque chose là-dedans, je le sens. Quelque chose de mauvais.” Hunter: “Okay… slow down. Photos. I see you’ve got a camera. Can I…?” He pointed at the device, then at his own eyes, trying to mime what he wanted. For the next several minutes they fumbled through a broken conversation—Marie speaking urgently in French, showing him the blurry images on the LCD screen, gesturing toward the orchard behind the café, her hands shaking. Hunter kept repeating simple words, pointing, and nodding whenever she said something that seemed important, though it was obvious he was catching maybe one word in twenty. Finally Marie pointed at one particular photo again, repeating the same anxious sentence. Marie: “Regardez l’ombre ! L’ombre n’est pas humaine, je vous le jure !” Hunter: “Shadow… I think I got that one. Shadow. Okay. I’m gonna need copies of these. We’ll figure this out.” Just then his phone buzzed loudly. He glanced at the screen, jaw tightening. Hunter: “Damn it. I’ve gotta take this. Stay where I can find you, all right? Don’t go back to that orchard alone.” He stood, gave her what he hoped was a reassuring nod, and strode away, already answering the call in a low, clipped voice. Marie watched him disappear down the sidewalk, camera clutched tightly to her chest, the untouched coffee forgotten on the table. The fear in her eyes had not lessened.