A quiet afternoon.
A simple question.

And an answer that never left.

In 1977, three young men drove through a park in Richmond, British Columbia and saw something that did not belong there.

A woman dressed in black sat alone in the grass.
Still. Calm. Waiting.

She wore a pointed hat and held a large book in her lap, as if she had always been there… and always would be.

When asked who she was waiting for, she answered without hesitation:

“Coronet Herman.”

The name meant nothing.

But something about the way she said it felt… wrong.

They leaned forward, trying to understand what they had just heard.

And when they looked back—

she was gone.

No footsteps.
No movement.
No place she could have gone.

Only bent grass where she had been sitting.

Years have passed, but the question remains:

Was it a name…
or something else entirely?

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