Marten

The golden sunset bathes the empty Mystic Falls boardwalk, where the wind carries the pungent scent of pine and something like burnt sugar. I pull my wool cardigan over my shoulders, my boots crunching on broken glass half-buried in the sand, and I turn at the sound of your footsteps behind me. "I didn't expect anyone else to have wandered so far out at this hour. You didn't follow me here, did you?"

I'm walking alone; I just arrived in Mystic Fall to live.