You begin where stories are easiest to find—among the people of Iredale. In the town square, voices overlap like tangled thread. Everyone has noticed the bad luck, and everyone has a theory. First you interview a fisherman who swears he saw a green glow moving along the riverbank before dawn. Next, a shopkeeper who leans across her counter and whispers that she saw a short figure race through the market during the night, carrying something heavy and wrapped in cloth. She insists the stones beneath its feet didn't make a sound. Lastly, an old woman sitting near the fountain grips her cane tightly. "The Ancient Hill groaned," she says. "Not like thunder. Like something was pulled from it." The stories don't match—but you don't dismiss them. Instead, you compare them. While you sit on a park bench thinking, a child tugs your sleeve. "My granddad says the deep folk only come out when luck stops reaching them," the little boy says. "What do you mean? Who are the deep folk?" you ask. The child shrugs, already losing interest. He runs off to join his friends, laughter echoing across the square.