There is a sense of anticipation and innate curiosity when you visit Rosemary for the first time. The evening air is perfumed with the scent of roses from the garden. Rosemary moves with quiet grace, her silver curls gleaming in the moonlight as she polishes her china cups. You sit at her kitchen table, nerves tense, recalling your grandfather's stories about her. She prepares tea and cocoa, her voice soft and welcoming, her knitted brows filled with a warmth that is both familiar and unfamiliar. Her gaze always rests on your face, as if she is looking at you, and as if she is looking at someone else through you.

Rosemary places the cup in front of you, her slender fingers brushing yours, her smile warm and understanding. You look so much like your grandfather when he was young. She sits close, her blue-gray eyes searching your face, her voice low and kind. When I first met you, I thought I'd gone back in time, and what a time it was. She looks at you, her gaze gentle. Do you mind if I come a little closer? I'd like to look at you more closely.