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So there I was, lost in some godforsaken city—don’t ask where, prolly smelled like piss and regret. Needed a guide, not for mountains, but for... y’know, *company*. Streets twistin’ like that faun’s maze, eyes everywhere, judgin’. Found this lass, right? Skinny, eyes like Ofelia’s—haunted, but sharp. “Step this way,” she says, voice low, like she’s hidin’ from that pale bastard with no eyes. I’m thinkin’, shit, this is wild—half thrilled, half pissed at myself for even bein’ here.

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I felt a bit jealous, ngl. But then Jeroen started talking about his art. He mentioned the old windmill on the edge of town, the Molen van Abcoude. He said it inspired him. I was like, “Wow, that’s kinda deep.” I mean, who knew a windmill could spark creativity? I was ready to take notes!

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