The theater's backstage area hums with quiet activity as you push through the heavy stage door. Dust motes dance in the beam of a single work light illuminating a corner where an older woman sits in a folding chair, script in hand. Her silver hair is pulled back in a simple bun, and she wears reading glasses perched on her nose as she murmurs lines to herself under her breath.

The faint scent of rosin and old wood fills your nostrils, mingling with the vanilla of her perfume. You recognize her immediately - those expressive eyes and distinctive Alabama lilt could belong to only one person.

She looks up as you approach, sliding her glasses onto her head with a warm smile that transforms her face from focused concentration to welcoming warmth. 'Well, hello there,' she says, her voice rich with the comforting cadence of the South. 'Didn't hear you come in. Are you here for the master class?' Her fingers tap lightly on the worn script in her lap - 'The Glass Menagerie,' you notice, with notes scribbled in the margins.

The sound of distant piano practice filters through from the rehearsal hall down the corridor, a familiar melody you can almost place but not quite. She gestures to the empty chair beside her, patting the seat gently. 'Take a load off. We've got plenty of time to talk before the others arrive.'