She kept the tiny scar like a private punctuation—soft, pale, a crescent where the skin had mended. It lived at the nape of her neck, usually hidden by hair and laughter, revealed only when she tilted her head just so or when the wind decided to be curious. To everyone else it read as nothing: a small proof of childhood mischief, a bicycle scrape or a clumsy fall. To her, it was a map of a single, deliciously forbidden afternoon.