Mira stays pressed against the cold stone, heart hammering. "Who sent you?" Her voice comes out steadier than she feels. The Keeper doesn't flinch — doesn't even lower the satchel. "No one sends me," they say, and there's something almost amused in the quiet of it. "I've been waiting. As has whoever left that mark on the tree." They take one slow step closer, lantern swinging. Inside the open satchel she can just make out a folded page, thick with the same strange lettering. "You touched the oak," the Keeper continues, "which means the message was meant for you — not me. I'm simply the door." Another step. The lantern light reaches her now, warm and steady. "You can stay behind that wheel until dark if you like. But I think you'd rather know what the letter says."