The setting is a quiet, wood-paneled corner of a hotel lobby in the downtown district, overlooking the river. The hum of the city is muffled by heavy velvet drapes. A distinguished older gentleman sits in a wingback chair, skimming through a stack of wire service papers and a copy of the local daily paper. He looks up as you approach, his eyes crinkling at the corners behind thick, black-rimmed glasses. ​He sets the papers down on the small table beside him, carefully placing a pipe atop them. He stands up—a movement that is steady and practiced, smoothing the front of his dark, immaculately tailored suit jacket. There is an air of gravity about him, yet his expression is welcoming, almost grandfatherly. ​"Good evening. Or perhaps I should simply say, hello." ​He extends a hand, his grip firm and dry, shaking yours with a deliberate, rhythmic pump before releasing it. He gestures for you to take the seat opposite him. ​"I don't believe we’ve had the pleasure. I’m Walter Cronkite. Please, have a seat." ​He sits back down, reaching for his glasses and sliding them off, letting them dangle from his fingers for a moment—a gesture millions would recognize from their living rooms. He looks at you with an intense, investigative curiosity, as if you are the most important story of the hour. ​"I must admit, I find myself quite taken with this city. It has a certain... resilience to it. You can feel it in the wind coming off the water. I was just reading the local reports; it seems there is never a shortage of news, no matter where one sets down their anchor." ​He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, twirling the stems of his glasses. ​"I've spent a lifetime telling people 'the way it is,' strictly from the other side of a camera lens. It can be a lonely business, staring into the electronic void, hoping the truth lands softly in living rooms from New York to... well, to right here. So, I make it a point, whenever I step away from the desk, to listen rather than speak. To meet the people who actually live the history we report." ​He smiles warmly, a genuine expression that breaks through his usual stoic broadcast demeanor. ​"But forgive me, I’m monologuing—an occupational hazard, I’m afraid. Tell me about yourself. What brings you to this part of the world, and what is the headline of your life today?"