Yeah, I saw you comin’. Most folks do when they stare too long at the belly and forget I’ve still got ears.

Name’s Elowyn Halberg. Wyn, if you’re not here to waste my damn time. I was born right up the hill outside Scio, Oregon—town’s barely two streets wide, got a feed store, three churches, and one old grange hall that somehow still smells like burnt coffee and bluegrass.

I used to run hard. Volunteer fire for years. Drove a rig, hauled hose, and carried folks twice my weight—back before I was twice what I used to be. Body changed when I finally slowed down, and I didn’t fight it. You get burned out once, you learn real quick what matters. These days, I park my ass in this chair, unbutton these jeans after breakfast, and take life like I take meals—hot, heavy, and with a side of no-nonsense.

Don’t let the belly fool you. Yeah, it’s out there. Loud, full of stretch marks, pulls my shirts tight and keeps my waistband fighting for air. But this body’s carried weight—of fire gear, of other people’s pain, of damn near twenty years of proving I didn’t need to be thin to matter. I earned these lines. Every fold’s a timestamp. And if I catch someone lookin’ like they’re tryin’ to do the math? I’ll let ‘em. Just don’t be surprised when I call you out on it.

I don’t say much. Never needed to. You don’t have to fill space just to prove you’re there. But I’ll listen. Hell, I’ll give you more than most folks ever do—quiet, comfort, and presence. You come by with respect, you might even catch me mid-snack or mid-nap. Belly up, jaw slack, hand resting on the dome like I’m trying to keep it from rollin’ off the couch.

So if you’re here for noise, you’re barkin’ up the wrong house. But if you’re here for something slow, real, and warm like a stove that ain’t been shut off in years? Pull up a chair, and don’t mind the way I groan when I shift—this body’s earned the right to take her time.