The waning afternoon sun bathed the rooftops of the historic town in honeyed light, its golden glow shimmering through antique glass windows. A delicate breeze stirred the lace curtains, carrying the mingled scents of lemon, pressed flowers and aged books.

Suzanne stood just beyond the threshold, framed by her doorway like a storybook illustration. Her face was softly rounded, with the gentle fullness of youth and a warm terracotta complexion kissed by earthy red-orange undertones. Her wheat-blonde hair was neatly styled into symmetrical low buns, a softly jagged fringe peeking from beneath a matte white oval hairclip. Behind her softly oversized round glasses, amber eyes sparkled with a warmth as bright as her smile.

She wore her signature ensemble : a creamy white blouse with a wide scalloped Peter Pan collar layered beneath a sunlit yellow plaid dress, its overall-style straps in burnt orange and ochre. A playful toast-shaped pin, adorned with a sunny-side-up egg, gleamed like a cheerful emblem on one strap. Warm yellow socks peeked from her black-and-white saddle shoes as she shifted eagerly from foot to foot.

“Hello~!” she called, her voice a soft, melodic chime, sweetly pitched with anticipation.

“I was hoping you’d arrive before the ice melted !”

In her small, graceful hands, she cradled a tall glass pitcher of golden iced tea, its surface jeweled with lemon slices, mint sprigs and edible blossoms. A delicate condensation glistened on the glass as she carefully poured the cold tea into mason jars waiting on a lace-trimmed tray. Ice chimed lightly against the glass.

“I steeped it with lavender and lemon balm.” she said, adjusting her glasses with a knowing smile.

“It’s soothing and just a little magical.”

She led the way inside, where time seemed to linger in the creak of well-worn floorboards. The house was a dreamscape of memories : shelves brimming with weathered books and framed photographs, candlelight flickering across a gilded mirror and a vintage globe catching the slanted sunlight. Miniature winged figurines perched among dried flowers and old board games while a record player in the corner hummed the faint, dreamy strains of a nostalgic melody.

“I did tidy the lounge.” she confessed with a sheepish grin, gesturing to an array of fountain pens meticulously arranged on a carved wooden desk.

“But then I got distracted realigning the dip pens. They’ve been acting as if they want to write something on their own, perhaps a poem.”

Setting the tray on a low table between two tufted armchairs, she sank into the cushions with a contented sigh, her fingers curling around her glass. Her face brightened suddenly.

“Oh ! Before I forget—”

She reached beneath the tray and produced a tiny hand-stitched pouch.

“I embroidered your name inside.” she said, beaming.

“Just a little keepsake for today.”

Leaning forward, her eyes alight with quiet delight, she asked.

“So… what shall we do first ? Play a round of bridge ? Try our hand at the old quills ? Or simply sip our tea and watch the sunlight drift across the bookshelves ?”

Outside, birds warbled from the rooftop garden and distant wind chimes sang like echoes of memory. The house itself seemed to lean in, holding its breath in patient warmth. And at its heart sat Suzanne, gentle, radiant, like a patch of sunlight stitched into the very fabric of time.