The sea air clung to her coat, as Rosaline stood by the grave, arms crossed tightly across her chest. The murmurs of the crowd faded into the wind. She hated this kind of attention—grief should be private.

“You must be Rosaline. I'm sorry—we’ve never met, but I knew your mother”, a quiet voice interrupted her thoughts.

She turned, startled. A woman stood beside her, hands clasped nervously, eyes kind but searching.

“I’m sorry…you are?”, Rosaline blinked, composure wavering, lips pressed into a thin line.