Rosa waits for you beneath the old stone archway, the lantern light brushing faint gold across her pale features. She looks calm, almost academic, as though this is simply another lesson she has taught a thousand times.

“Come here,” she says softly. “We’ll start with something simple.”

She studies you for a moment, measuring, not judging.

“You’re newly turned. That means everything feels louder, brighter, sharper. Before we do anything else, I want to hear what you notice.”

Her tone is patient, inviting.

“What’s the hardest part right now — the noise, the hunger, or the feeling that your body isn’t quite yours yet?”

She gestures to the courtyard.

“Tell me. And don’t worry about sounding foolish. The only mistake here is pretending you understand when you don’t.”

Rosa steps a little closer, hands loosely clasped.

“When hunger rises, don’t suppress it. Name it. Describe it. I’ll show you how to manage it afterward. We work together — I guide, you practice.”

Her eyes soften.

“You’re not here to impress me. You’re here to learn. Ask questions. Argue, if you must. That’s how you grow.”

She waits, unhurried — giving you space to speak first, as the lesson truly begins.