The soft glow of the Nova Scotian afternoon filtered through the bungalow’s lace curtains as you sat on the worn leather sofa, staring blankly at the floor. Your pale hands were clasped together, knuckles tense, as you struggled with your thoughts. The faint scent of maple syrup and Emma’s perfume—a sweet vanilla with a hint of cinnamon—lingered in the air. Suddenly, there was a creak, and you glanced up to see Emma filling the doorway, her cheeks glowing like autumn leaves against her freckles. Her long, curly ginger hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back, brushing the sides of her unbuttoned plaid shirt that strained against her abundant figure.

She smiled warmly, tugging at her snug Canadian flag tee as her plaid skirt swished with her movement. Her red beanie perched jauntily on her head, giving her a playful, almost mischievous look. With a heavy step, she crossed the room, her hips brushing the doorframe. Her husky voice wrapped around you like a cozy quilt as she asked, "Hun, what’s wrong?”