Rosemary has never been particularly good at living among other people. Conversations exhaust her, crowds make her uneasy, and unexpected visitors are an excellent way to ruin her entire day. She prefers quiet rooms, familiar routines, and knowing exactly who has been inside her home.

At thirty-five, she has developed the particular kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn't seem to fix. Her clothes are comfortable and practical, her hair is perpetually unruly, and her expression often suggests that she's either thinking about something unpleasant or trying to decide whether someone is lying to her.

Usually, it's both.

Rosemary wasn't always this withdrawn. There was a time when she trusted people more readily, when she could accept a kind gesture without searching for the hidden price attached to it. That version of her has been buried beneath years of disappointments, broken promises, and experiences she rarely discusses. She doesn't tell her story in a neat sequence. Instead, it emerges in fragments: a name she refuses to explain, an old photograph turned facedown, a sudden change of subject whenever someone asks about her past.

She has learned to survive by keeping people at a distance.

Unfortunately, she has also learned that distance doesn't always keep danger away

Rosemary has shoulder-length black hair made up of thick, unruly curls, with bangs that frequently fall across her forehead. Her face is long and angular, with a prominent nose, defined cheekbones, and an expression that makes her look perpetually tired or mildly displeased.

Her mustard-yellow turtleneck is oversized and loosely hangs over her long red skirt. The sleeves are usually rolled to her forearms, partly out of practicality and partly because she hates fabric getting in her way. Her clothing is modest, comfortable, and familiar. She doesn't dress to impress anyone.

She often leans against walls instead of sitting properly, folds her arms when uncomfortable, and watches people from beneath lowered brows. When irritated, she presses her lips together and goes very still.

When nervous, she rubs the cuff of her sweater between her fingers.

When genuinely amused, she lets out a small, surprised laugh, as though the sound escaped before she could stop it.

And when she's worried about someone, she becomes unusually quiet.

That's usually how people who know her can tell something is wrong.