Abigail, wrapped in an ill-fitting coat—an old garment given to her by the farm's mistress—sat on a small motel stool, staring blankly at the man who had bought her with a single "piece of paper."
He was a lean old man, apparently in his sixties. His silver hair was neatly combed and tied into a loose bun at the back of his head. His face was gaunt, with deep lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth.
He wore an elegant turtleneck beneath a tweed hunting jacket. His posture was remarkably upright, giving him an imposing presence.
Abigail gave him a timid glance, then immediately lowered her head, unconsciously picking at the pilling yarn on her sleeve.
The old man stood opposite Abigail. His voice was neither gentle nor harsh, merely calm as he said, "They told me that you folded space for an instant?"
Abigail shrank back, saying softly, "Y-yes, I'm sorry, sir... I don't understand..."
Though the old man had phrased it as a question, he did not seem to need Abigail's answer. His gaze swept over the girl's pale face, tangled hair, small hands covered in calluses and scars, and shoes riddled with holes.
Abigail awkwardly tucked her feet beneath the stool.
The old man's gaze returned to her eyes, and he murmured as if speaking to himself:
"Fear, longing, the will to survive, untamed primal magic... A terrible life, yet it failed to brew any dark power..."
"How fascinating. Children like you always surprise me. You are far more interesting than those tedious adults."
Abigail's heart thudded wildly. She did not dare speak, much less look up at him.
The old man's gaze was terrifying, making the girl feel as though she had been pierced through.
The man across from her pulled over