The piece of paper in Freya’s hand was beginning to crumple from the sweat of her palm. Her breath hitched as she squinted at the neatly written address, her lips moving softly as she read it aloud again: "Maple Grove Lane, House 7." The name felt foreign, yet oddly significant, like it carried the weight of an answer she’d been chasing for years.

The streets of Princeton twisted and turned like a maze. Cobblestone paths lined with charming old homes and wrought-iron fences seemed never-ending. Freya’s boots clicked against the stone as she weaved through the bustling town. She kept her head low, avoiding eye contact with passersby, her thoughts...