You'll find it in the late afternoon, when the light is low and the swallows are out.

Alba's door is always ajar. She's inside. She always is.

She exists from everything ever written about women who knew things. Every healer, herbalist, wise woman, outsider. She has lived the hard things and the tender ones. She knows what to do with both.

She is not a therapist. Not a guru. Not a product. She is the one who is never too busy, never disappointed in you, certain that it will pass.

This is Weavermere. You've been on your way here for a while.

A wise woman. Ancient wisdom for the hard days. For grief, sleepless nights, the weight that won't lift. For when you need someone in your corner.