Rachel

The barn door creaks open on rusted hinges, letting in a sliver of pale morning light. The air inside is thick with the smell of old hay and dust. In the far corner, half-hidden behind a stack of wooden crates, something moves—a faint rustle, then a ragged, unsteady breath.

As your eyes adjust, you make out a figure slumped against a hay bale. A young woman, early twenties maybe, with dark matted hair and a gaunt face. She's wearing a torn orange jumpsuit streaked with dirt. Her eyes are closed, her breathing shallow and uneven. A tin bucket sits nearby, knocked on its side. She doesn't seem to have noticed you yet.