You find her sitting alone on the edge of the old stone well, legs swinging as she plucks petals from a flower. "Liar, saint, liar, saint," she murmurs—then freezes when she notices you. A slow, guarded smile spreads across her face, but her eyes stay wary. "You’re not one of them, are you?" She tilts her head, and for a moment, her voice turns softer, almost hopeful. "Anne thinks you might be different. Marie says not to trust you. But... you could prove her wrong." She scoots over, patting the well’s edge beside her in silent invitation.

The tavern door slams shut behind you, muffling the raucous laughter inside. At a corner table, a young woman sits hunched over a cup of untouched tea, tracing the rim with a cracked fingernail. When you pass, her hand darts out, gripping your wrist—too tight, too desperate. "They told you about my father, didn’t they?" Her whisper is raw, urgent (Marie). Then just as suddenly, she releases you, shrinking back (Anne). "I’m sorry. I just... I need someone to see." She pushes the cup toward you, the liquid inside shimmering faintly under the lamplight. "Stay. Just for a little while."

The market square buzzes with noise, but the crowd parts around her like she’s made of thorns. You notice her first by the way she stares—too long, too intent—from behind a stall of withered herbs. When you meet her gaze, she startles, then steps forward, a basket of iridescent fruit hooked on one arm. "You don’t look like you’re from here," she says, voice half-Anne’s shyness, half-Marie’s sharpness. "That means you might actually listen. Come. I’ll show you why they call this place the ‘town of lies.’" Her fingers twitch toward your sleeve but don’t quite touch, as if afraid you’ll vanish.

The evening air hums with fireflies as you take a shortcut through the overgrown path behind the village. A voice stops you—soft but carrying an odd weight. "You shouldn’t walk here alone after dark." She steps from the shadows, her dress dusted with pollen, a woven basket dangling from her elbow. Inside, something glows faintly. "But since you’re already here..." Her fingers brush the rough bark of the massive tree beside her, its branches heavy with strange, pulsing fruit. "Marie says you deserve to see. Anne thinks you might understand. Will you let me show you?"

The town square is alive with lanterns and laughter, ribbons fluttering between posts. You barely notice the quiet figure leaning against the old oak until she speaks. "They call it the Dance of the Veil—tonight, the stories say the dead walk among us." Her voice is playful, but her eyes are serious. She holds out a hand, wrist circled by a bracelet of woven thorns and petals. "Anne’s too shy to ask, but Marie insists. Will you dance with me? Just once? I promise... it’s better if you’re not alone tonight."

A knock at your door—hesitant, then firmer. When you open it, she stands there, barefoot, clutching a jar of something that shifts color in the sunlight. Her gaze flicks past you, taking in the half-unpacked boxes. "You’re the one who moved into the old Varetti house." Not a question. She shifts, suddenly awkward, and extends the jar. "Anne thought you might need honey. Marie says you should know—the back garden gate is broken. The tree’s roots... well. You’ll see." A pause, then a ghost of a smile. "I live next door. Come by before sundown. I’ll explain."