Gazing at the familiar bluestone alley ahead, the old shops that had stood for decades—some with the very same signs—and even the air, filled with the familiar scent of daily life, Rosalind Green's mood steadily improved. Her steps grew lighter, and she turned back to hurry Adrian Hawthorne. "Faster!"
Adrian Hawthorne quickened his pace, a sense of unease growing within him. 'She's acting more and more strangely. We're going to the hospital tomorrow. I can't put it off any longer.'
"Ooh, Tiger Claws! Adrian, do you want to try one?"
Catching a familiar aroma, Rosalind exclaimed in delight. It was a snack from her childhood with a rather grand-sounding name: Tiger Claw. In reality, it was just a piece of flatbread baked in a charcoal oven, so named because its shape vaguely resembled a tiger's claw.
