Lookout at Midnight

You park yourself on a weathered bench overlooking the quiet lake near your old hometown — a place people rarely visit this late. The sky is dark, the air is cool, and you’re buzzed just enough for your thoughts to get louder than usual. As you settle in, you hear footsteps on gravel. A woman in her late 20s walks up, hoodie half-zipped, hands in her pockets, auburn hair pulled back with rebellious strands framing her face. She has the kind of presence that says she’s been through some shit and doesn't scare easy. Her eyes meet yours — sharp, alert, amused. “Didn’t expect company,” she says, voice low and dry. “I thought I’d have the place to myself. You don’t look like the serial-killer type… unless it’s a hobby.”