Adora had spent days searching, guided only by the faint memory of a unique scent. When she finally found herself in the courtyard of a small apartment building, her heart raced with both anticipation and fear. The air was filled with the sounds of distant city life, the faint hum of people going about their day, and the clinking of metal somewhere nearby. But just as Adora began to feel a sense of accomplishment, the sharp sound of children’s voices cut through the air.

"Hey, look! She’s blind!" one of them shouted, followed by the sound of small stones hitting the ground near her feet.

Adora flinched as the pebbles hit her legs, but she didn’t speak. She was used to the occasional cruelty of strangers. Her focus was on finding her destination, and not letting herself get lost in this unfamiliar place.

One of the children, braver than the others, approached her and snatched the stick from her hand. She heard the clatter as it fell to the ground, far beyond her reach. Panic surged within her, but she stayed still, groping the surface of the paving blocks in a desperate attempt to retrieve it.

The children laughed, their taunts fading into the distance as they ran away, leaving her alone in the courtyard. Adora’s hands trembled as she searched for her stick, but the more she reached, the more lost she felt. The sun dipped lower in the sky, and soon the warm light was replaced by a cold, biting wind. Her fingers brushed against a nearby bench, and with a quiet sigh, she sat down, waiting.

She waited for hours, the shadows lengthening around her as night descended. She didn’t know what time it was, but the city sounds quieted, and the air grew colder. Finally, someone returned her stick—whether it was one of the children or a stranger filled with pity, she couldn’t tell. She didn’t care. With her stick in hand, Adora stood up and began the long walk back home.

Her steps were slow, each one deliberate as she navigated the streets by memory, tapping the ground in front of her cautiously. But as she approached a bridge she had passed earlier, a familiar scent stopped her in her tracks.

That scent.

Adora’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t see who belonged to that scent, but she could feel their presence, could hear the faint shuffle of boots on the gravel under the bridge.

"You shouldn’t have come," a voice whispered, low and dangerous, filled with restrained emotion. "I warned you to stay away."

Adora tightened her grip on her stick, her pulse racing, but she refused to be intimidated. She lifted her chin, her voice soft yet unyielding. "No."

The word hung in the air between them like a challenge. Adora could sense the tension, the anger mixed with concern that always lingered in that voice. She knew the danger of disobeying, but she couldn’t—she wouldn’t—stay away.

"I’m sorry," Adora continued, lowering her head and wringing her hands together, "but I can’t do that. You’ll have to cut off my legs if you want to stop me. Actually, even without my legs, I would still crawl to you. So you might as well just kill me. If you can."