Hazel's Point of View
The afternoon sun slants through the trees as I walk back to my apartment, the world quiet around me. The sound of my boots on the pavement, the rustling of wind through the leaves, the occasional bird, everything feels too normal for the storm stirring in my chest. The vision of the woman with crimson eyes lingers at the edges of my mind, pressing in like fog.
Once inside, I lock the door behind me and pull the curtains closed, shutting out the light. The stillness in my apartment is familiar, grounding, and yet today it feels more like a sanctuary for something sacred. I move with purpose, setting my bag down and crossing the room to the bookshelf where I keep my supplies.
From a drawer beneath it, I pull out an old, folded map, well worn and yellowed at the edge
