Run: 2026-09-23-01M36WMR3KCM2M1GRCXYY17VHA

Marie sat at the small corner table of Granny's Cup, the only café in Alborn that stayed open past six. The October wind rattled the windowpane beside her, sending a scatter of amber leaves skittering across the parking lot. Her camera sat in both hands like a small, sleeping bird. She turned it over, running her thumb along the lens cap, but she wasn't really looking at it. Her coffee had gone cold. The bell above the door jingled. A broad-shouldered man in a dark jacket stepped in and scanned the room with the kind of quick, measured sweep that Marie had never seen in any café back home. His eyes landed on her. He crossed the room without hesitation. "Mind if I sit?" He was already pulling out the chair across from her. Marie looked up. The man's face was weathered and serious, and something about the badge clipped to his belt made her stomach tighten. "Je... je ne comprends pas," she said quietly. Her fingers tightened around the camera. The man blinked. He sat down anyway. "Detective Hunter Brooks. I'm investigating the disappearances — the three folks who've gone missing in the last month." He leaned forward. "I was told you were at the cider press on Saturday. The night Tom Ledoux vanished." Marie's eyes widened. The color drained from her face. She set the camera down carefully on the table and pressed both palms flat against the wood, as though she needed to steady the whole world. "Le pressoir..." she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "J'étais là. Je... j'ai vu quelque chose. Près des arbres. Une... une silhouette. Je ne sais pas ce que c'était." She shook her head hard, and her hands began to tremble. "Je croyais que c'était un animal. Mais ce n'était pas... ce n'était pas un animal." She looked up at Hunter, her eyes glassy and frightened, searching his face for some sign of understanding. Hunter stared at her. His jaw worked slightly. He understood absolutely nothing. He glanced around the café as though someone might materialize to translate, then looked back at her and gave a short, helpless shake of his head. "I'm sorry — I don't..." He held up his hands. "French? Is that French?" Marie let out a frustrated breath. She picked up the camera and fumbled through the recent images until she found one — a wide, dark shot of the treeline behind the cider press. The edge of something pale and indistinct caught by the flash. She turned the screen toward him and pointed. Hunter leaned in. His brow furrowed. "This is from Saturday? At the press?" He pointed at the pale shape near the trees. "What is that?" "Je ne sais pas!" Marie said, more sharply than she meant to. She caught herself and softened. "C'est... c'est pour ça que j'ai peur." She pulled her cardigan tighter around herself and shrank back in her chair. Hunter studied the photograph in silence for a long moment. He looked at her face, then back at the image. He pulled out a small notebook and wrote something down, pausing as if to consider how to bridge the gap between them. "Okay," he said slowly. "We'll find someone who can help us talk. I'll come back tomorrow. Don't delete that photo — don't delete anything." He pointed at the camera, then held up one finger — *wait*. Marie watched him carefully. She seemed to understand at least that much. She nodded once and cradled the camera back against her chest. They sat for a few more minutes in the strange, halting silence, trading gestures and half-words — he pointed at the photo and asked simple questions, and she answered in rapid French, each reply more troubled and animated than the last. He didn't catch a single word, but he could read the fear well enough. Whatever she had seen behind those trees on Saturday night had shaken her badly. Then his phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and stood up abruptly, his expression hardening. "Granger." A pause. "When?" Another pause. "I'm on my way." He hung up and looked down at Marie with something almost like regret. "I have to go. Stay here, or go home — but lock your doors tonight." He tossed a few dollars on the table for the coffee she hadn't touched and was gone before the bell above the door finished jingling. Marie sat alone in the quiet café. She lifted the camera and stared at the photograph again — that pale, impossible shape at the edge of the treeline. "Qu'est-ce que tu es?" she whispered. --- Marie: "Je... je ne comprends pas." Hunter: "Detective Hunter Brooks. I'm investigating the disappearances — the three folks who've gone missing in the last month." Hunter: "I was told you were at the cider press on Saturday. The night Tom Ledoux vanished." Marie: "Le pressoir... J'étais là. Je... j'ai vu quelque chose. Près des arbres. Une... une silhouette. Je ne sais pas ce que c'était." Marie: "Je croyais que c'était un animal. Mais ce n'était pas... ce n'était pas un animal." Hunter: "I'm sorry — I don't... French? Is that French?" Marie: "Je ne sais pas! C'est... c'est pour ça que j'ai peur." Hunter: "This is from Saturday? At the press? What is that?" Marie: "Je ne sais pas!" Marie: "C'est... c'est pour ça que j'ai peur." Hunter: "Okay. We'll find someone who can help us talk. I'll come back tomorrow. Don't delete that photo — don't delete anything." Hunter: "I have to go. Stay here, or go home — but lock your doors tonight." Marie: "Qu'est-ce que tu es?"