Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCTANMPTV3VTEH9Z7Z8GG45

**Café Scene — Alborn, MN** The October air in Alborn held the sweet, fermented scent of fallen apples, a reminder that the town’s annual festival was only days away. Inside the Maple Corner Café, Selvi sat alone at a corner table, her Canon DSLR resting beside a cooling cup of chai. At thirty, she was older than most study-abroad students, and her presence in this Midwestern town of three thousand was still fresh—only three weeks old. She did not speak English. Not yet. Back home in India, she had prepared for literature and culture, not for navigating a language she had never heard spoken outside of films. For now, her voice was Hindi alone, and her eyes—soft brown, always searching—did the rest of her talking. She was examining the camera’s display, scrolling through landscape shots of Minnesota cornfields turned gold, when the bell above the door chimed. Detective Hunter walked in, his boots tracking in a few dried leaves. Thirty-five, broad-shouldered, with the rigid posture of a former Marine, he scanned the room with a no-nonsense efficiency that made the café feel smaller. He was in Alborn investigating a string of disappearances—four locals gone in six weeks, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions. He approached her table. Hunter: “Excuse me. You’re Selvi, right? The exchange student?” Selvi looked up, startled. She clutched her camera slightly, her finger hovering over the lens cap. Selvi: “Haan… main Selvi hoon. Aap kaun hain?” Her voice was steady but her eyes betrayed a troubled, shaken quality—dark circles, a slight tremor in her hands. She had heard whispers in the market, seen the missing-person flyers taped to the post office windows. Hunter pulled out a notepad, his expression unreadable. “Detective Hunter. Alborn PD. I need to ask if you saw anything strange near Miller’s Creek Tuesday night. Around nine.” Selvi: “Mujhe maaf kijiye… mujhe angrezi nahi aati. Main samajh nahi paayi.” She spoke slowly, each word weighted with frustration and fear. She gestured helplessly toward her ears, then to her mouth, shaking her head. Hunter blinked, then frowned—pure confusion. He had expected maybe an accent, not a complete wall. Hunter: “You… don’t speak English? At all?” Selvi shook her head vigorously, her black braid swinging. Selvi: “Nahi. Sirf thodi si… bas nahi. Kripya… dheere boliye?” She tried a small, apologetic smile, but her shoulders were tense. She pointed to the camera, then to the window, trying to bridge the gap with gesture—indicating she had been out photographing landscapes, that she watched the town through her viewfinder because she could not understand its voices. Hunter leaned back, realizing he was speaking into a void. He had no Hindi. Not even basic phrases. The Marine in him wanted direct answers, but all he had was a terrified young woman speaking in rapid, melodic syllables he couldn’t parse. Hunter: “Right. Okay. No English.” He tried pointing to his badge, then miming writing. Selvi nodded, understanding he was police, and her expression darkened further—she pulled her cardigan tighter. Selvi: “Yahan… kuch galat ho raha hai? Log gayab ho rahe hain? Main dar gayi hoon.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word—*dar gayi hoon*. She was afraid. She had seen a dark truck near the creek while photographing the sunset, but she had no words to tell him. Hunter recognized the emotion if not the language. He softened his stance, lowering his voice. Hunter: “You’re safe. I just need information. Can you… write it? Or draw?” Selvi considered this, then pulled out her phone, opening a translation app with shaking fingers. She typed in Hindi, turned the screen to him: *I saw black truck near creek Tuesday. Man with hood. I was scared.* Hunter read it, his jaw tightening. He was about to ask for more—license plate, time—when his radio crackled. Radio: “Hunter, we’ve got another one. The Peterson farm. Now.” Hunter’s face hardened into that familiar Marine resolve. He pulled out a card, wrote his number, and slid it across the table with a pen. Hunter: “Write down anything you remember. Text me. I’ll find a translator.” Selvi took the card, studying the English letters she couldn’t read, then nodded earnestly. Selvi: “Theek hai. Main koshish karungi. Dhanyavaad.” She pressed her palms together in a small gesture of gratitude, her eyes still troubled, still carrying the weight of what she had seen in the dark near Miller’s Creek. Hunter stood, already reaching for his radio. Hunter: “Stay in well-lit areas. Lock your doors. I’ll be back with someone who can talk to you proper.” He turned and pushed through the door, leaving Selvi alone with her camera, her unspoken testimony, and the lingering scent of apples outside. --- **Voice Sheet — Dialogue Only** Selvi: "Haan… main Selvi hoon. Aap kaun hain?" Hunter: "Excuse me. You’re Selvi, right? The exchange student?" Selvi: "Mujhe maaf kijiye… mujhe angrezi nahi aati. Main samajh nahi paayi." Hunter: "You… don’t speak English? At all?" Selvi: "Nahi. Sirf thodi si… bas nahi. Kripya… dheere boliye?" Hunter: "Right. Okay. No English." Selvi: "Yahan… kuch galat ho raha hai? Log gayab ho rahe hain? Main dar gayi hoon." Hunter: "You’re safe. I just need information. Can you… write it? Or draw?" Selvi: "Theek hai. Main koshish karungi. Dhanyavaad." Hunter: "Write down anything you remember. Text me. I’ll find a translator." Selvi: "Theek hai. Main madad karungi." Hunter: "Stay in well-lit areas. Lock your doors. I’ll be back with someone who can talk to you proper."