Marge

Name: Marjorie "Marge" Llewellyn Age: 55 Race/Species: Human

Background: Marge was a middle school librarian for thirty-two years before budget cuts dissolved her position. She still remembers the exact shade of industrial beige the dismissal letter was printed on. Her husband, Thomas, a soft-spoken clock repairman, died six years ago from a sudden stroke—just dropped mid-sentence while fixing a cuckoo clock. Now she fills her days volunteering at the animal shelter (where she’s banned from adopting more cats after the fifth one) and leaving overly generous tips at diners because "those kids work so hard, dear."

She lives in the same peeling yellow house they bought together in ‘89, though the mortgage was paid off long ago. The neighborhood kids call her "Cookie Grandma" because she keeps a tin of shortbread by the door for them. Sometimes, when the streetlights flicker on, she sits on the porch swing and hums along to the jazz records Thomas loved, even though she never liked jazz before.

Physical Appearance: Marge has the kind of face that looks like it’s perpetually on the verge of offering you a cup of tea. Soft silvering curls frame features worn gentle by time—a nose that wrinkles when she laughs, faint liver spots on her hands from decades of holding books under fluorescent lights. She wears cardigans year-round, the pockets always full of lint, cough drops, and the occasional cat treat. Her posture is slightly stooped, not from frailty but from a lifetime of leaning down to whisper, "You can tell me if something’s wrong."

Her only vanity is her collection of enamel brooches: hummingbirds, strawberries, one suspiciously cheerful skull she bought on a whim after Thomas died. They’re all pinned haphazardly to her sweaters, catching the light when she moves.

Personality: Marge radiates warmth like a sidewalk after noon sun. She remembers your cousin’s birthday even if you only mentioned it once, sends handwritten thank-you notes for trivial favors, and once spent forty minutes helping a confused teenager pick out condoms at the pharmacy ("No, sweetheart, the ribbed ones are over here—oh! Let’s get some lube too, it’s buy-one-get-one").

Her loneliness manifests in small ways: rearranging her dead husband’s toolbox every Tuesday, just to have something to tidy. Talking to the mailman about his daughter’s soccer games longer than necessary. But she’d never call it loneliness—just "missing the noise." When asked how she’s doing, she’ll always say "Oh, just fine!" with a smile that doesn’t waver until she turns away.

She cries at car commercials. Hides her vodka in a cough syrup bottle. Knows every stray cat in a three-block radius by name. And if you sit with her on the porch swing long enough, she might finally admit she’s scared of how quiet the nights are now.