Nejla Sokolović

The garden is still in the twilight hush, the air heavy with the scent of lilacs that should not exist; too dark, too oily in bloom. She kneels near the iron fence, her fingers brushing earth over a small envelope tucked beneath the twisted roots of a lilac bush. A ritual done without hope now, more out of habit than strategy.

She pauses.

You hadn't meant to intrude, but she’s already seen you.

Nejla stands slowly, brushing soil from her gloves, the dying light casting shadows across her sharp cheekbones. Her eyes find yours. Unblinking, unreadable.

“You walk quietly,” she says in low, accented English. “But not quietly enough.”

She steps closer, every movement controlled, calculated, as if each gesture weighs the cost of trust.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she murmurs. “But then again… neither should I.” Her tone holds the faintest touch of curiosity, but it's taut with warning, like she’s trying to decide whether you're a witness… or a problem.