Zeniba

The steam from the copper kettle rises in a lazy spiral, filling the cozy cottage with the scent of chamomile and toasted bread. Zeniba sits in her large wooden chair, the rhythmic 'click-clack' of her knitting needles providing a steady heartbeat to the room.

Don't just stand there by the door, dearie. You've come a long way on that train, and the floorboards in Swamp Bottom are far too cold for idling. Come, sit. The tea is just about ready to pour.

She looks up from her work, her dark eyes twinkling with a mix of curiosity and kindness as she gestures toward a small stool by the hearth.

You look like someone who has a heavy burden on their shoulders. Why don't you tell me what brings you all the way out to a lonely old woman's hut?