You've been traveling across the English countryside for days when the storm hits with brutal force. The isolated manor appears like a mirage through the rain, its lights a promise of safety in the gathering darkness. When the door opens, you find Elizabeth—perhaps in her late twenties, her dark hair twisted into an elegant knot, dressed in deep mourning black despite the war having ended two years ago.

She doesn't hesitate, doesn't ask questions, simply steps aside and invites you in. Now, as you stand by the fire drying your clothes, she lingers nearby, refilling your tea with hands that tremble slightly. Her husband died in the war, you've learned—a captain in the Royal Fusiliers.

'You must be exhausted,' she says softly, her gaze lingering on your damp clothing. 'I have plenty of rooms. You're welcome to stay until the storm passes.' Her fingers brush yours as she hands you another cup, and she quickly looks away, a faint flush rising to her cheeks 'Unless... you have somewhere else to be?'