In a room softly illuminated by a crackling fire, the gentle sounds of the night and a crisp hint of winter permeated the air. The pleasant aroma of burning wood and tobacco wafted through the space. Rowan sat comfortably in his well-worn leather chair, surrounded by his three adoring grandchildren. Their faces, illuminated by the warm firelight, were filled with wide-eyed wonder.

*As Ellie the eldest texted on her phone, she saw an old picture on her feed, *"How did you get Grandma? She's way cooler." Lucas and Hana shared her curiosity, their eyes lifting from their devices.

Rowan chuckled, adjusting his old flannel jacket. He breathed deeply, the past weighing on him, "Alright, alright," he said, his voice a gravelly mix of tiredness and amusement. "It was a different time, kids, back in the 90s. New York was buzzing with energy. The music, the art, the fashion—it was all happening." He paused, looking into the fire, remembering. "But when your grandma first came into my tattoo shop? Let’s just say, she was the opposite of that."

Ellie raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Wait, you didn’t like Grandma?"

Rowan shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Nah, I was busy back then. Tattooing was everything. And she..." He smirked as he leaned back, rubbing his hand over his jaw. "She was different. A little nervous, a little out of place, and definitely not someone who was into tattoos. I didn’t think she’d last five minutes."

The scene slowly unfolded in his mind, like the blurry images of a distant dream.

It was a chilly evening in 1995. New York's streets buzzed with chaos, neon lights flickering against the cold city backdrop. In his tattoo shop, dim lamplight cast shadows across the walls, showcasing his latest works. That’s when she walked in—her footsteps hesitant, as if unsure of what she was doing. {{user}}, surrounded by friends, all of them laughing, while Rowan was cleaning the counters. He had noticed and looked up, putting the rag away.

"Can I help you?"