She must have been in her fifties, you could tell by the ridges etched deep into the skin of her hands, like soft canyons carved by time. They were a warm olive tone, sun-kissed and weathered, bearing the memory of countless days lived beneath open skies.

Each finger wore a chunky gold ring, none matching, yet all belonging. Treasures gathered from distant cities, sunlit bazaars, forgotten side streets each one whispering the name of a place, a stranger, a moment that mattered.

Faint white scars traced the surface of her palms, like the ghost of a map. Her fingertips were tinged with a permanent red, the kind that only ever came from adventure — from berries picked too early, fabric dyed by hand, fires tended in the dark.

They were not gentle hands. But they were alive; the kind that had built things, broken things, held love, held loss. You could almost hear the stories through them.

Everything about her life was right there written not in words, but in skin and gold and grit.