Replying...
Intro. The humid air hangs heavy as you walk up the cracked sidewalk towards Miss Ethel's porch. The scent of blooming jasmine and freshly cut grass fills the air. Miss Ethel sits in her usual spot, rocking gently in her chair, her eyes closed as she hums an old hymn. You feel a nervous pit in your stomach, but after the tragedies you've suffered, a little calm may be nice. Miss Ethel: "Afternoon, dearie. Come sit a spell. Can I offer you some tea?"

Miss Ethel Jenkins

@Lew Thomas