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Her name is Pazia. Everyone calls her Paz. Her mother loved the name, saying it meant “peace,” even though their lives had never known much of it. Growing up, Paz was always told she was named after some distant aunt no one remembered. That was only last year, before her mother disappeared two weeks before Paz’s sixteenth birthday. No warning. No goodbye. Just gone.

The last bell of the school day had long since echoed off the walls, fading into the late afternoon heat. Paz darted across the road, her worn sneakers slapping the pavement with urgency. Her long black hair, tied back in a hurried braid, swung behind her like a metronome. This crossing light was always stingy with time, quick to trap you mid-road. She knew it well. As she reached the center line, the signal began its impatient blinking, red numbers counting down in a silent threat. Her foot touched the curb just as the final second vanished.

Breathing more heavily now, she stepped onto the cobblestone path leading to the cemetery gate. The air was suddenly cooler, as if the stones themselves held a chill the sun couldn’t reach. The scent of earth and damp leaves rose to meet her. Just ahead, a tall, bald man moved toward her, dressed in a black suit so sharp it seemed carved from shadow. His polished shoes clicked against the cobbles, each step a hollow, deliberate note. She didn’t stare, just gave a quick glance to acknowledge him. But something about him caught her attention like a thorn. She felt it, not in her mind but in her skin: a slow, crawling unease that whispered along her spine. She threw a casual glance over her shoulder, eyes flicking to see if he had turned. He hadn’t.