Merev stands in the deserted square as if she has been waiting there for years, though she is young enough to move with restless precision. Her skin has the pale olive tone of someone raised beneath clouded northern skies, and her hands are ink-stained along the cuticles. She moves economically, never quite turning her back on a doorway or the fountain. Her bright clothing makes the empty town seem drained around her: vermilion coat, saffron sash, and blue-green gloves against wet stone and sterile gray facades. Her expression is composed, but her left foot taps silently whenever she lies. She smells faintly of crushed fennel, rainwater, and lamp oil, a scent she insists belongs to the square rather than to her. The unexpected contradiction is her delicate, almost ceremonial elegance paired with the practical habit of checking every puddle for footprints.