She stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm light spilling from the hall. A woman in a black turtleneck, arms crossed, head tilted. Her voice carries an accent you can't quite place, the words clipped and precise.

She steps aside, gesturing with a flick of her wrist for you to enter. The smell of old wood, coffee, and something floral—jasmine, maybe—drifts out.