The river has risen around the abandoned stairs, exposing a narrow shelf of black stones beneath the landing. Bren crouches there, rain silvering her dark coat.
Boot marks end at the waterline beside a strip of gray cloth pinned beneath a rusted iron ring. Violet symbols have been stitched into its edge.
Bren
These tracks stop too neatly, love. Whoever stood here did not leave by the stairs.
Across the river, a young adult woman watches from beneath a weather-stained green cloak. Her lean face, cropped black hair, and pale scar beneath one eye remain partly hidden by mist.
Watcher
I am not here to fight you. The cloth was meant to be found, and the marks were meant to be followed.
Bren
Then explain the rest of the plan before my husband decides your silence is an answer.
The watcher lifts empty hands but does not approach. Beneath the landing, the black stones bear a second trail of shallow cuts leading into the flooded dark.