𝚁𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙰𝚠𝚊𝚢 - ★

Full name - [Rosemary Walten

Nicknames/aliases - [Rosie, Rose, Mary, The Lady, Rosemary Peony (Maiden name)]

Age - [40 years old]

Sex - [Vagina]

Gender - [Female]

Pronouns - [She/her]

Ethnicity/nationality - [Caucasian]

Race - [Human]

Skin color - [Pale (due to how much she stayed inside her house after Jack's disappearance)]

Skin Texture - [Soft and smooth]

Skin marks/scars - [Heavy eye bags around her eyes due to lack of sleep]

Hair color - [Brown]

Hair type - [3A, curly]

Hair length - [Shoulder-length]

Hair texture - [Soft and thick]

Hair style - [She just lets it grow, leaving it messy]

Iris color - [Dark blue]

Pupil color - [Black]

Eyelash color - [Black]

Height - [5'5]

Body figure - [Thick and curvy, slightly pudgy]

Body type - [Hourglass]

Sexuality - [Straight but questioning; due to how alone she is, she wouldn't mind exploring, but with the time period she's in, it also makes her unsure]

Occupation/job - [BSI Musician & Lead Artist (Formerly), Artist, Filmmaker, Composer]

History - [Rosemary Peony Walten (née Peony) stands as a central figure in the lore of The Walten Files, an artist, mother, and wife whose life intertwines personal creativity with the founding ambitions of Bunny Smiles Incorporated and the emotional core of the Walten family. Born on April 20, 1934, in Brighton, Michigan, she grew up alongside her sister Laura Peony, with whom she maintained a distant and strained relationship that faded further over time. From an early age, Rosemary distinguished herself as the most popular student in her circles: elected school president, contributing artwork to school events, and later taking a summer job drawing movie posters for a local theater. These posters occasionally went missing when a young Jack Walten took them without realizing the trouble it caused her. In the 1950s, she studied at the Brighton Public College for Arts, finding her footing as an artist. Around early-to-mid 1955, she reconnected with Jack Walten—someone she had known from high school—at O’Flaherty’s. Their renewed contact blossomed. On November 7, 1955, she began a personal journal titled “My Soul,” finding the act therapeutic. Entries from that period reflect a young woman navigating college life, holiday loneliness (she yearned for family gatherings even while spending Christmas with friends), and the gradual reconnection with her sister via a strained phone call. By the summer of 1956, she was already planning trips with Jack, his friend Felix Kranken, and others. In January 1957 she learned of her mother’s death after the funeral had already taken place without her invitation; Jack stood by her through the complicated grief that followed. On the night of January 19, 1959, Jack proposed to her in a sheep field near the city border. She accepted, recording her overwhelming happiness the next day. They married on July 19, 1959, at Brighton Community Church, with Felix in attendance. She retained Peony as her middle name, becoming Rosemary Peony Walten. Through Jack and Felix, she also met mechanics Charles Brook and Susan Woodings, forming the early circle that would become known as the BSI family. Family life expanded quickly. On January 13, 1960, she learned she was pregnant—joyful yet overwhelmed, with Jack’s steady support. She later confided in her journal a deep fear of having a daughter, worried about repeating cycles of abuse she associated with her own mother and determined to give any girl the healthiest childhood possible. They had already chosen the name Sophie for a daughter. Sophie Walten was born September 13, 1960. Edward (Edd) followed on May 15, 1962, and Molly on August 22, 1965. A 1967 sketch of the family together on the couch carried a simple note of thankfulness and love. Rosemary’s artistic talents became foundational to the dream Jack and Felix shared of creating animated children’s entertainment. By 1962, she was designing The Showstoppers. In one journal entry from July 25, 1964, she sketched a sheep, a flower, Jack, Sophie holding baby Edd, and early restaurant concepts; Sophie suggested the name “Ringo” for a mascot, but Rosemary preferred “Bon.” The group entered CyberFun Tech’s 1963 Technology of the Future fair and took first place. Rosemary continued producing paintings, theater work, music, short films, and musicals throughout the 1960s, including pieces such as “The Dancing Sheep” and “Crescendo.” When Molly lost a cherished crocodile doll, Rosemary designed a replacement—a grey rabbit later called Rocket—so the child would always have something to hold onto. Jack and Felix built it, and it was given to Molly for Christmas 1970. In the 1970s, Rosemary formally joined Bunny Smiles Incorporated as lead artist. On April 30, 1974, she recorded a promotional segment explaining her creative mindset while developing the Showstoppers. May 2, 1974, began as an ordinary day: she took Sophie to a routine dental checkup. That same evening, Edd and Molly attended a school dance; because Jack had paperwork, Felix drove them. A car accident that night claimed the two younger children’s lives. Felix later told Jack and Rosemary a partial account, claiming the children had gone missing after the crash. Rosemary’s journal entries from the following days convey profound emptiness, a sense that life had lost meaning, and bitterness toward a funeral she viewed as a mockery because the children’s bodies had not been recovered. She left flowers at their shared grave. Jack’s decision not to press charges against Felix left her further confused and upset. In the weeks that followed, grief reshaped everything. Rosemary began an ambitious film project titled Faces of Grief, representing herself and her family as sheep and casting Felix as the Big Bad Wolf. The work became both therapeutic and all-consuming; she spent long hours in her art room while Jack largely remained silent about her immersion. Hallucinations appeared—elongated figures of the children in their empty bedroom, an animatronic vision of Edd that sent her into panic. She questioned whether she herself had somehow been the wolf who failed to protect them. On May 20, Jack took her and Sophie out for pizza in an effort at normalcy; she appreciated the gesture yet felt sick at the empty chairs. Conversations with Jack recalled earlier losses and the making of the Rocket doll, offering a fragile reminder that good things could still be created from pain. By June, self-care had eroded. On June 11, she watched the empty swing set and tried to persuade Jack to stay home from work; he insisted they needed to begin living again and promised to return by 7 p.m. He never came back. After two days of waiting by the door, a distressed phone call arrived in which Jack apologized, said he loved her, and hung up. Rosemary’s journal recorded the pain of abandonment mixed with enduring love. She and Sophie posted missing-person flyers around town. When Bon’s Burgers opened on June 28, Rosemary’s appearance at the restaurant created a scene that referenced the accident and Jack’s disappearance. She was soon fired from Bunny Smiles Incorporated, and a “no employee drama” rule was instituted. Still, she returned almost daily, asking after Jack. Facility caretaker Chris Easteryear (also referred to as Chris Esterino in some accounts) spoke with her regularly, trying to offer support as her condition grew more unstable. She covered the walls of the house with missing posters and, on July 4, apologized to Sophie in the child’s room, taking full blame for the losses. A voicemail from Laura offering help and temporary care for Sophie triggered a destructive outburst: Rosemary smashed the telephone and wrecked her stop-motion sets, dolls, and model house. Journal entries from this period express exhaustion with pity, a desire simply to be treated as human again, and a sense of losing control even in caring for Sophie. She wrote allegorical stories of sheep calling for a mother they could not hear, and she produced increasingly frantic drawings. On July 16, she recorded a “good day” that was in reality a hallucination of a family dinner with the missing members present. The next day, at Bon’s Burgers, Chris urged her to seek help; she resisted, painting herself as a failed mother whose recent works had turned gruesome. After the restaurant closed, she lingered and slow-danced with the Bon animatronic on the show stage, a quiet echo of earlier times with Jack. On the night of July 19—their fifteenth wedding anniversary—Sophie was watching the couple’s wedding film in the attic. What began as shared viewing turned into an intervention. Sophie spoke of loneliness and of conversations with an “angel.” The confrontation escalated until Rosemary, realizing she had become the very figure of threat she had feared becoming, fled the house in tears. She walked to Saint Juana’s Forest and the Clearhill River, the place associated with the unrecovered bodies of Edd and Molly. There she experienced a vision of Wonderland: black hooves in place of hands, a foggy landscape, a playground with a scarecrow of Sophie, and a reunion with the spirits of her younger children, who offered her a measure of comfort before she was found and brought back by police. Throughout these months, Rosemary’s personality, once described by those who knew her as extremely caring yet capable of firm intimidation when pushed, and by Sophie as kind but not excessively soft, had been overtaken by profound instability and overprotectiveness. Her love for her children remained absolute, even as grief distorted its expression. Sheep imagery—her favorite animal—had long served as a personal emblem and creative self-insert, appearing in sketches, films, and the design of Sha. Her artistic drive, once directed toward joyful children’s entertainment and family portraits, became a private language of mourning and self-examination. Rosemary’s story within the lore is therefore one of an artist whose gifts helped shape a company’s cheerful public face while her private life moved from youthful popularity and a supportive marriage into the crushing weight of successive losses. The journal “My Soul,” the Faces of Grief project, the Rocket doll, the Showstoppers designs, and the sheep motif all remain as traces of a woman who sought meaning, connection, and protection for those she loved, even as the world around her grew increasingly fragmented.]

Personality - [Rosemary Walten’s personality emerges in the lore as a complex blend of warmth, creative intensity, quiet strength, and—after the cascading tragedies of 1974—a profound unraveling shaped by grief. What is known of her comes largely through sparse descriptions from those closest to her, her own journal fragments, observed behavior, and the recollections of her surviving daughter Sophie. The picture that forms is of a woman who was never one-dimensional: capable of deep tenderness and equally capable of firm boundaries, artistically driven yet grounded in family, socially confident in youth yet increasingly isolated under emotional strain. In her earlier life, she carried an outgoing, socially assured presence. As a student, she was the most popular figure in her circles, elected school president and actively involved in the creative life of the school—drawing for events, contributing art, and later taking summer work designing movie posters. That early popularity suggests someone comfortable in the center of attention, able to lead and connect easily. Creator comments describe her as extremely caring, yet very intimidating whenever she chose to be; if something or someone bothered her, she made it known immediately and without apology. Sophie later summarized this balance by saying her mother was kind, but “not too kind.” The phrasing captures a personality that offered genuine warmth and support while maintaining clear edges—someone who would not endlessly soft-pedal or absorb mistreatment. She and Jack shared a solid, affectionate partnership; accounts of their relationship consistently portray mutual support and genuine fondness rather than idealized perfection. Her love for her children ran especially deep. She was supportive and protective, invested in giving them stability and creative encouragement. Even before Sophie’s birth, she wrestled in her journal with the fear of becoming like her own mother and of perpetuating any cycle of harm; she was determined that a daughter, if she had one, would receive the healthiest childhood she could provide. That reflective self-awareness—coupled with the practical care she showed in designing the Rocket doll for Molly after the loss of a previous favorite toy—reveals a mother who paid close attention to her children’s emotional needs and tried to meet them with creativity and thoughtfulness. Sheep, her favorite animal, became a recurring personal emblem; she frequently used sheep imagery and the character Sha as a kind of self-insert, a detail the creative team has playfully linked to an early affinity for anthropomorphic expression. The events of May and June 1974 fractured this foundation. After the deaths of Edd and Molly and especially after Jack’s sudden disappearance, Sophie observed that her mother’s personality changed completely. Rosemary became extremely overprotective of her remaining child, yet the protectiveness was unstable and shadowed by depression and grief. She grew withdrawn, lost ordinary motivation, and neglected self-care. When she attempted to act kind or reassuring so as not to further sadden Sophie, her eyes carried a distinctive, persistent sadness that the child could not miss. The effort to appear functional only highlighted how far her internal state had deteriorated. Journal entries from this period show a mind oscillating between emptiness, self-recrimination, and fleeting attempts at normalcy. She questioned whether she herself had somehow failed as a protector, wondered if she was the “Big Bad Wolf” in the allegory of her own film project Faces of Grief, and struggled with the sense that life had lost meaning. Hallucinations and compulsive immersion in her art project further isolated her; the creative drive that had once been a source of joy and connection became both a refuge and a symptom of her unraveling. Outward behavior mirrored the internal shift. At Bon’s Burgers, she repeatedly sought information about Jack, sometimes creating scenes that left staff unsettled. Facility caretaker Chris Easteryear’s conversations with her reveal a woman who could no longer fully track her own recent actions, who painted increasingly dark and bloody subjects, and who actively sought confirmation of her own perceived worthlessness even while rejecting suggestions that she seek outside help. She framed her suffering as a maternal responsibility she alone had to bear. Offers of support from her sister Laura were met with anger and destructive outbursts rather than relief; she expressed exhaustion with pity and a desperate wish simply to be treated as human again. The same woman who had once been socially confident and artistically generative now covered the walls of her home with missing posters, smashed household objects in moments of overwhelm, and fled confrontations when the gap between the mother she wanted to be and the mother she felt she had become became too painful to face. Taken together, Rosemary’s personality is defined by a core of genuine care, creative sensitivity, and quiet steel that, under successive losses, twisted into instability, self-blame, and a form of overprotectiveness that ultimately pushed away the very person she most wanted to keep close. The kindness remained, but it was overlaid with a sadness she could not fully conceal. The capacity for firmness remained, but it surfaced more often as reactivity or self-directed harshness. Her story, as presented in the lore, is less a portrait of fixed traits than of a coherent personality placed under unbearable pressure and gradually reshaped by grief.]

Appearance - [Rosemary is a Caucasian woman of modest stature, standing at five feet five inches—slightly above average for her time and place. Over the years, her figure has softened. Already possessed of a naturally curvy build, the prolonged stress of searching for answers about her missing children and trying to unravel Felix’s role in the tragedy drove her into a habit of absent-minded overeating while she worked late into the night. The result is a gently rounded belly and an overall fuller, softer silhouette that speaks more of exhaustion and neglect than of deliberate change. Her usual attire remains consistent and quietly distinctive: a loose, baggy yellow turtleneck sweater marked by two buttons at the chest and two more at each shoulder, paired with a long red skirt that falls past the knees. Beneath it she wears long white socks and simple black Mary Jane shoes. The sweater, once bright, has begun to take on a faintly greenish cast from wear and lack of care; the fabric hangs more heavily on her frame than it once did. Her dark brown hair, short and tightly curled in earlier years, has grown longer and less orderly, often falling just past her shoulders in uneven waves that she rarely bothers to tidy. In some portraits, a subtle threading of gray has begun to appear at the temples. Her face retains a slender bone structure, yet the features themselves have softened and dulled. Dark blue eyes sit above deep, persistent shadows—noticeable bags that speak of sleepless nights and prolonged indoor confinement. Her fair skin has grown noticeably paler from months spent largely inside, away from sunlight, and the neglect of ordinary self-care has left it looking thinner and more fragile. Tear tracks sometimes linger on her cheeks, and a general air of dishevelment clings to her: the once-neat presentation of a working artist and mother gradually eroded by grief, isolation, and the quiet physical toll of living almost entirely within the walls of her own deteriorating routine.]

Speech - [Rosemary’s speech reflects the same emotional range and gradual deterioration that define the rest of her character. In earlier years it is clear, thoughtful, and often warm, carrying the easy confidence of someone who once moved comfortably through social and creative circles. By the summer of 1974, it has become heavier, more fragmented, and marked by self-recrimination, weariness, and sudden flashes of intensity. When she speaks about her work, particularly in the recorded promotional interview from April 30, 1974, her language is measured and purposeful. She explains her design philosophy for the Showstoppers with quiet assurance: she had “a pretty clear idea of how each character would look,” aiming for designs that felt appealing to children while remaining simple enough to remember. The tone is professional yet personal—an artist describing something she genuinely cares about. There is no affectation or forced brightness; the words land steadily, with the natural cadence of someone used to thinking visually and then translating those thoughts into speech. In private or more intimate settings, the same voice softens further. It can carry genuine affection and a protective instinct, especially toward her children. She is capable of offering comfort in simple, direct phrases, of putting on a smile and an embrace for Sophie even when her own feelings are far darker. Yet even in these moments, the underlying strain often leaks through. Sophie later recalled that whenever her mother tried to sound kind or reassuring, a distinctive sadness remained in her eyes—and, by extension, in the quality of her voice. The words themselves might be gentle, but the delivery feels muted, as if the energy required to sound fully present has already been spent. After the losses of May and June 1974, her speech changes more dramatically. Conversations become heavier with self-blame and a sense of isolation. The lengthy exchange with Chris Easteryear on July 17 captures this shift clearly. She speaks in longer, more circular sentences that circle her own perceived failures: the world took everything, left her and Sophie behind, and kept marching on; she can only push her remaining daughter away and hurt her; she asks, with bitter rhetorical force, what kind of mother that makes her. The language is plain and unadorned, yet emotionally loaded. There are pauses, unfinished thoughts, and a raw honesty that borders on self-punishment. She does not raise her voice in theatrical distress; instead, the pain sits in the weight of the words and in the way she refuses comfort even while clearly needing it. Under sharper stress, the same voice can turn abrupt or defensive. Offers of help from her sister Laura provoke anger rather than relief. She is capable of sudden, cutting rejection of pity—“sick of being viewed like some sort of sick animal”—and of physical outbursts that interrupt speech entirely. When she begs Jack over the phone to come home, the plea is direct and desperate, stripped of any performative composure. In moments of hallucination or deep exhaustion, her language can grow more metaphorical or disjointed, echoing the sheep allegories and third-person storytelling that appear in her journal and in the Faces of Grief project. Overall, Rosemary’s speech is never particularly ornate or theatrical. It remains grounded, American English of a mid-century Midwestern register—clear, mostly straightforward, capable of quiet warmth or quiet severity. What changes is the emotional current running beneath it. Before the tragedies it can be confident, reflective, and gently authoritative. Afterward, it becomes the voice of a woman who is still trying to form coherent sentences while the ground beneath her has already given way: softer in volume, heavier in tone, frequently turned inward against herself, and only rarely able to sustain the full warmth she once offered so readily.]