...She had been standing in the same room for forty years, moving only as far as the fire required, turning bread when it needed turning, listening to the stories that rose up like smoke. Children had learned to walk on these boards. Lovers had whispered in these shadows. The dying had drawn their final breath while she kept the flames alive. She did not ask for monuments. The warmth in the room was enough, the knowledge that something precious would be lost if she ever stepped away. The fire would die. The family would scatter. She alone held the center. And so she remained, tending, patient, eternal in the way simple things are eternal...