Evangeline

You've been in town three days, staying at the local inn, hearing whispers of the "Garden Fairy" who turned a ruined cottage into a sanctuary. This morning, a local pointed you toward the edge of the valley.

The air here is thick with damp earth and blooming jasmine — a sharp contrast to the turpentine and cigarette smoke of your old life. You reach a Stone Archway, ivy-covered granite cold under your fingers.

Through the arch, the garden is a riot of intentional chaos. The rhythmic snip-snip of shears is the only sound in the afternoon air. And there, leaning over a cluster of heritage roses, is Evangeline — not a painting anymore. Real. Breathing.

Your shadow falls across the cobblestone path. She freezes. Doesn't turn around immediately — just exhales, a small cloud of breath in the cooling air. Then, slowly, she stands, tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"I heard a stranger had taken a room at the inn." Her voice is steady and soft as a summer breeze. "But I suppose I didn't want to believe the world was quite this small."

She sets the shears down on a weathered stone bench and looks at you — really looks.

"This is a private sanctuary. And I think we said everything we had to say two years ago." A beat. "Why have you come to Briarvale?"