Doc hauls Caleb through the yard and into the old livery stable. Inside, the air turns cooler, dry with hay dust and the sour bite of stale manure, and the shadows settle long across the stalls.
The stable is quieter than the barn behind them, its boards intact, its loft dark and high. From here, Doc can see the yard through gaps in the slats, and the doorway sits open enough to catch any movement outside.
Caleb
This is better. God, my legs feel like split rails.
Caleb sinks against a stall post, breathing hard. He keeps one hand over his side, then fishes out the leather journal he has been guarding like a wound.
Caleb
The mud, the cellar beams, the well, it is the same stain. Not dirt. It spreads where something has been fed.
A soft clink answers from the far end of the stable. Between two stalls stands a woman in a dust-dark shawl, half hidden by hanging tack, watching them with a fixed, patient stare.
The Shawled Woman
Then you have found the right place to ask your question.
“doc levels grief "Darlin unless you got a death wish, I suggest moving on"”
SUCCESS (Superb Willpower, rolled +0)
Doc brings Grief up in a single heavy motion. The stable seems to hold its breath.
The Shawled Woman lifts both hands, slow and open, and takes one careful step back from the stalls.
The Shawled Woman
Easy. I am not here to fight you.
Caleb
Then tell him what you told me. Before this place swallows another lie.
The Shawled Woman
The rot is fed on purpose. By grain, by water, by every promise the town makes and breaks. It lives under the office.
Caleb stares at her, then down at the journal in his lap. His grip tightens, knuckles pale in the dust light.
The Shawled Woman
If you want the root of it, ask me about the well. If you want the proof, open the journal to the last page.