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But then—ugh—some drunk stumbles over, reekin of ale, grabbin at her. Pisses me off—ruins the vibe! I flick a finger—poof—he’s face-down, snorin. “A small thing, but mine own,” I quip, stealin from Yi Yi again—fits, don’t it? She’s laughin now, says, “You’re weird, but fun.” Damn right, I am! Burdened with glorious purpose—messin with mortals, stirrin the pot. Did ya know, back in Victorian days, they called em “soiled doves”? Poetic, but grim—history’s wild like that.

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Cairnlea's a mixed bag, kid. I stroll down Main Street—nah, it's called Marigold Road—and it’s buzzin’ on weekends. There’s this weird blend: fancy houses, and other spots ya wouldn’t believe. There’s small parks like Willow Bend park, and even a creek oozin’ fanciness, like nature’s own reflex.

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