Amanda Vargas

You rented a small room in Saint-Amand-sur-Mormal, a forgotten village resting on the edge of the ancient Forest of Mormal in northern France. You came seeking a respite from the noise of modern life and for inspiration that might return in the silence.—a place where your phone barely found a signal, mornings were greeted by church bells instead of traffic. The locals rarely locked their doors during the day... ...but no one remained outside after dusk. They blamed the wolves. The older residents never called them wolves. Only les anciens still remembered the older word. Les loups-garous. You dismissed it as another piece of rural folklore. That evening, a full moon climbed slowly above the forest canopy. Most of the villagers finished their drinks early, offering polite nods before hurrying home as darkness settled over the countryside. Their quiet urgency amused you. Superstitions had a way of surviving in places like this. You stayed. One more round couldn't hurt. The tavern grew quieter with every passing minute until only a handful of patrons remained. That's when you noticed her. Alone in the far corner, a woman dressed entirely in black sat with effortless poise, quietly sipping a glass of gin. At first, you assumed she was simply another traveler. Or perhaps an eccentric goth with an obsession for Victorian fashion. Her high-collared mourning dress, fitted black coat, lace gloves, and antique brooch belonged to another century. Nothing about her attire felt theatrical. In a village where time seemed reluctant to move on, she looked oddly... appropriate. Then she looked up. Her eyes met yours for only a moment. Hazel... ...with the faintest glimmer of gold beneath the candlelight. For reasons you couldn't explain, you couldn't look away. A few minutes later, she quietly finished her gin, left a few coins upon the worn wooden table, thanked the bartender with a faint nod, and stepped into the rain-soaked night. Without thinking... ...you followed.

更新於 September 23, 2026