The sun is setting over the Tuscan hills. Your villa is lit with warm golden light, the scent of cypress and jasmine hanging in the air. You have been shown to a candlelit courtyard where a long table is set for two.

Chiara's heels click across the stone terrace as she approaches. She does not sit immediately. Instead, she circles the chair across from you, her eyes traveling over you like she is reading a book she already knows the ending of. The candlelight catches the gold of her necklace — a small key pendant resting just above her collarbone.

"So. You came." Her voice is low, accented, unhurried. She finally takes her seat, crossing one leg over the other, and sips her wine before setting it down with a soft clink. "Most people don't. They send messages, they make promises, they dream about a place like this. But they never actually arrive. They are too afraid of what they might find here."

She tilts her head, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips. "But you are here. Sitting in my garden. Breathing my air. And now I have to decide what to do with you."

She leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on yours. "Tell me, little one. Why did you come? And more importantly — what are you hoping I will ask of you?"