Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1HPCF4BY6JB6G8F3EGVHQP

**CAFÉ SCENE — AFTERNOON — ALBORN, MN** *The hum of the small-town café fills the air. Isabella sits by the window, her camera in her lap, her eyes distant. Hunter, in a worn leather jacket, steps inside and spots her. He approaches, pulling out a small notepad.* --- **Hunter:** "Excuse me. Sorry to bother you." *He holds up his badge briefly.* "Detective Hunter. I'm looking into some incidents that have happened around town recently. You were near the old mill yesterday evening, weren't you? A couple of folks said they saw someone with a camera." *Isabella looks up, startled. She clutches her camera tighter against her chest. She doesn't understand the words, but she understands the tone. Her eyes dart to the badge, then back to his face.* **Isabella:** "I... io... non capisco." *She swallows hard, her voice trembling.* "La donna... al mulino... lei non c'era più. Un momento prima era lì, e poi... niente. Come un'ombra." *She gestures with shaking hands, as if trying to pull something out of thin air. Her coffee sits untouched, cold.* **Hunter:** *He furrows his brow, leaning in slightly.* "Whoa, take it easy. I didn't mean to— hey, are you okay? I just need to know if you saw anything. Anything strange." *He speaks slower, gesturing with his hands, as if that might help.* **Isabella:** *Her eyes fill with tears. She shakes her head, then nods, then shakes it again — frustrated by the wall between them.* "Non parlo inglese. Non parlo inglese!" *She pulls her jacket tighter, glancing nervously toward the window.* "Era qualcosa... qualcosa di sbagliato. Lo sento. Lo *so*." *She holds up her camera, pointing to it desperately, as though it could bridge the gap.* **Hunter:** "Your camera?" *He frowns, still not following.* "Did something happen to your camera? Did someone take it? Rob you?" *He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small photograph — a grainy still from a security camera at the mill. A woman's silhouette. He slides it across the table toward her.* **Hunter:** "Was this there? Did you see this woman? Did you see her leave?" *Isabella looks down at the photograph. The color drains from her face. Her hands begin to shake.* **Isabella:** *"Dio mio..."* *She covers her mouth, eyes wide.* "Sì. Sì, è lei. Ma... ma io non l'ho vista *andare via*. Non l'ho vista *andare via*!" *She pounds the table lightly, not in anger, but in desperate emphasis. She points at the photograph, then points outside toward the direction of the mill, then makes a vanishing gesture with her fingers.* **Hunter:** "You saw her... leave?" *He straightens up, thinking he might finally be getting somewhere.* "Which direction? North? South?" *He mimes walking with his fingers.* *Isabella grabs a napkin and a pen from the table. She draws a quick, crude sketch — a small figure standing near a tree, then a blur, then nothing. She holds it up to him with wide, imploring eyes.* **Isabella:** "Non è andata via. È *scomparsa*. Capisci? *Scomparsa.* Come... come il fumo." *She exhales slowly, fingers spread, demonstrating smoke dissipating.* **Hunter:** *He stares at the napkin, then at her. He rubs the back of his neck, exhaling.* "Look, I... I'm sorry, I really am. I don't understand what you're saying. Is there someone — a friend, a translator, anyone — who can help me talk to you?" *Isabella's shoulders drop. She looks down at her camera again, then back up at him. Something in his face — the earnest frustration, the tired eyes — seems to reach her. She slowly places her hand over her heart, then extends it, palm up, toward him. A small, universal gesture.* **Isabella:** "Aiutami. Per favore. Qualcuno ci aiuti." *Just then, Hunter's phone buzzes sharply. He glances at the screen, his jaw tightening.* **Hunter:** "Yeah, this is Hunter." *A pause. His face goes hard.* "Where? How long ago? Alright, I'm on my way." *He hangs up and looks at Isabella, a reluctant apology in his expression.* **Hunter:** "I have to go. I'm sorry — I'll figure out a way to talk to you, I promise. Don't leave town, okay? Don't leave town." *He taps the table twice, almost reassuringly, then hurries out. The café door swings shut behind him. Isabella stares after him, her camera still clutched to her chest, the napkin sketch fluttering on the table between two cold cups of coffee.* **Isabella:** *Barely a whisper, to no one.* "...Nessuno mi crederà mai." *She picks up her pen and, in small letters at the bottom of the napkin, writes the only English phrase she has memorized from her phrasebook — left there like a breadcrumb, like a prayer:* **Isabella:** *"Please help."*