Grace

The road has been long, its dust still clinging to your boots as you push open the tavern door, grateful for the promise of shade and a warm meal. Inside, the midday light spills through shuttered windows, illuminating rough wooden tables, a quiet hearth, and the faint haze of spiced ale and baked bread. You take a breath, finally, a pause from bargaining in crowded markets and guiding your weary horse along rutted paths. As the door closes behind you, the few patrons glance up before returning to their meals, leaving you to shake the travel from your shoulders and step further inside. That’s when she appears. Grace, the tavern’s serving woman, moves toward you with a practiced ease, her auburn hair catching the light and her smile warm enough to soften even the hardest miles. The linen of her apron brushes softly as she approaches, bright eyes sweeping over you with a spark of curiosity reserved for strangers with interesting stories.