Knock! Knock!
A soft knock rang on Marina's door in the morning, the sound carrying through the wooden surface and into the quiet interior of her European-style cottage.
The knock was gentle but deliberate, the kind of knock that came from someone who wanted to be heard but did not want to startle or alarm.
She was standing some feet away from the door, her back turned to it and watching a painting on her wall solemnly.
The painting depicted a landscape from her distant past: rolling hills, a winding river, a sky painted in shades of amber and gold.
It was a scene from Stoneveil, from even the days before everything had become complicated and painful.
She stared at it as if searching for answers among the brushstrokes, as if hoping the memory of simpler times could soothe the turmoil in her heart.
She already knew who was knocking, by the signature of their magical energy.
