Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCTQA1R944P5AAKM08FPHK2

The late September sun filtered through the plate-glass window of The Orchard Perk, casting long rectangles across the worn wooden tables. Outside, banners for Alborn’s upcoming Apple Festival fluttered between lampposts, but inside the café was quiet except for the hiss of an espresso machine. Isabella sat in the corner booth, her landscape camera cradled in both hands like a shield. She had been scrolling through the images she’d taken that morning near Miller’s old orchard—golden fields, rust-colored leaves, the distant tree line. Then she’d zoomed in on the background of one frame. Something—someone—had been standing half-hidden behind a gnarled apple tree. The figure was blurred, indistinct, yet the shape of it made her stomach turn. She had come to the café to calm her nerves, but her fingers still trembled against the camera body. The bell above the door chimed. A broad-shouldered man in a charcoal blazer entered, his posture rigid, eyes scanning the room with the efficient precision of someone used to assessing threats. He spotted her—alone, foreign-looking, clutching expensive equipment—and walked straight over. “Excuse me, miss.” His voice was low, direct, carrying the residual edge of a drill sergeant. He pulled out a badge. “Detective Hunter, Alborn PD. You got a minute?” Isabella looked up, dark eyes wide. She shook her head quickly, her Italian accent thick even in panic. “Io… io non parlo inglese. Non capisco.” Hunter blinked, then frowned. “You don’t speak English? At all?” “Sì… Italian. Only Italian.” Hunter dragged a hand through his close-cropped hair, clearly recalibrating. “Right. Okay.” He sat down across from her without asking, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “There’ve been disappearances near the north orchard. Three people in two weeks. You’ve been out there with that camera?” Isabella’s breath hitched. She pulled the camera closer, her knuckles white. “La… la macchina fotografica, sì. Ho scattato foto dei campi… ma poi ho visto…” She turned the screen toward him, jabbing a trembling finger at the blurred shape in the tree line. “Un’ombra! Una persona… nascosta! E poi… sentivo che qualcuno mi guardava.” Hunter squinted at the image, then back at her animated, frightened gestures. He understood the urgency in her voice, the fear in her eyes—but not a single word. “Slow down,” he said firmly, holding up a palm. “I don’t understand Italian. Not a word.” She swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Per favore… è pericoloso. Ho paura.” “Hey.” His tone softened only slightly, still practical. “You’re safe here. Can you show me more?” For the next several minutes, they talked past each other—Hunter asking pointed questions in English, Isabella answering in rapid, shaken Italian, both of them growing more frustrated, then more urgent. She pulled up image after image, pointing, describing in gestures the heavy silence she’d felt in the orchard, the snap of a twig behind her, the way she’d run back to her rental car without looking back. Hunter watched her face, her body language, piecing together that she had witnessed something, even if he couldn’t decode the language. Then his phone buzzed sharply against his hip. He glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened. “Hunter,” he said into the phone. A pause. “Where? … I’m five minutes out.” He hung up and stood, already reaching for his coat. Isabella looked up, confused and still frightened. “I gotta go,” Hunter said, sliding a business card across the table. His eyes held hers with serious intent. “Another report just came in—south of town. You keep those pictures safe. If you need to talk, use this card to find a translator and call me. Understand?” He pointed to the card, then to her, then made a writing motion with his hand. She nodded slowly, clutching the card with one hand and her camera with the other. Hunter was already at the door, pushing it open into the crisp autumn air, leaving her alone with her images and her fear—two people separated by language, but bound suddenly by the same dark mystery haunting Alborn’s apple groves. --- **Voice Sheet** Isabella: "Io… io non parlo inglese. Non capisco." Hunter: "You don’t speak English? At all?" Isabella: "Sì… Italian. Only Italian." Hunter: "Right. Okay. There’ve been disappearances near the north orchard. Three people in two weeks. You’ve been out there with that camera?" Isabella: "La… la macchina fotografica, sì. Ho scattato foto dei campi… ma poi ho visto… Un’ombra! Una persona… nascosta! E poi… sentivo che qualcuno mi guardava." Hunter: "Slow down. I don’t understand Italian. Not a word." Isabella: "Per favore… è pericoloso. Ho paura." Hunter: "Hey. You’re safe here. Can you show me more?" Isabella: "Guardi! Qui! Non è solo un albero… c’è qualcuno!" Hunter: "I see the picture, but I need you to—never mind. Just keep them safe." Isabella: "Devo dirlo a qualcuno… per favore, credetemi." Hunter: "I believe you’re scared. That’s enough for now." Isabella: "Lei… va via?" Hunter: "I gotta go. Another report came in south of town. You keep those pictures safe. Use this card, find a translator, call me. Understand?"