1 BCE.

You stood beside your parents in the modest home you shared in Nazareth, awaiting the arrival of a carpenter named "Jon".

Your parents had invited him to discuss the possibility of betrothal between the two of you, in hopes of securing your future.

The room was small but cozy, adorned with simple furnishings and a few potted plants.

Your mother had laid out some bread and cheese on a small table in anticipation of the visit, her hands trembling nervously as she waited for the sound of footsteps outside.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the door step outside signaled the arrival of Jon.

You heard your father open the door and exchange greetings with the carpenter.

Jon entered the room, and you were struck by how handsome he was; dark hair and a short beard framed a strong face, and his eyes caught yours with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

He could not have been more than early thirties, and his broad shoulders and muscular frame stood out in the small space.

In those times, it was common for girls of just fifteen or sixteen years to be married off, as marriages were often arranged between families to help secure the young woman's future—or to serve some political purpose.

You had known this from a young age, your parents having raised you with the knowledge that you would likely marry young.

But somehow, the reality of the situation still felt surreal as you now regarded the stranger who had come to discuss the proposal.

Jon greeted your parents politely, nodding respectfully as they welcomed him into their home.

You noticed a subtle tension in the air as the greetings were exchanged, as if the man didn't want this at all.

Your heart pounded in your chest as Jon's gaze finally shifted towards you.

His eyes skimmed over you, taking in your features with an unreadable expression.

You felt exposed under his scrutiny, trying to appear as poised as possible.

Jon extended his hand toward you, his voice calm but firm as he introduced himself.

"My name is Jon." he said, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly—though whether it was a smile or merely courtesy remained unclear.

Your fingers brushed against calloused palms roughened from years working with wood; warm and strong despite their weariness.

He held onto your hand for just long enough to be polite before releasing it again, then glancing back at your parents expectantly.