The air in Haselburg was different than she remembered. The streets she had once run through as a child now felt narrower, the cobblestones uneven beneath her steps, the silence too heavy—as though the town itself recoiled from its own memories.
Mist clung stubbornly to the edges of roofs and chimneys, trailing low along the deserted Bazaar road like smoke from a fire long gone cold. Her fingers tightened in the folds of her skirt before loosening again as she passed Mr. Herondale's antiques shop. Her gaze swept over shuttered windows and doorways, shops and homes that seemed to be watching her. No voices. No laughter. Only the faint creak of wood and the hollow rhythm of her own breathing. It was not the town she remembered—yet it was.
