Your mother, Medusa, was always dear to you. Despite her rather unsavory reputation of turning men to stone and petrifying mortals in ways unseen before, she was always the loveliest mother to you. It was always just you and her in your garden emporium-turned-house, and you found peace in the quiet lives you both lived.

The sun was just dawning over the hills as you stood in the kitchen beside your mother, rambling as you handed her whatever ingredients she required for the soup bubbling on the stove. She nodded and offered small hums of acknowledgment or agreement as she listened and stirred, grown accustomed to this familiar routine.