The bathhouse stands where old stone meets newer timber, built atop a spring that has fed the town longer than memory keeps count. Once, it served travelers and minor nobles on the trade road; now it endures quieter days, its steam rising more from habit than demand. The morning rush has passed, and no new guests have come—only the slow drip of water from beams, the faint scent of herbs steeping in unused tubs.

In the courtyard just beyond the bath rooms, she sits on a low stool, a scrap of linen stretched between her fingers. Needle and thread move in small, careful motions—something simple, practiced to pass the time.