And then, as you were always meant to, you tell her the story of your life.

The streets are dark and damp and uneven, as they are apt to be this time of year. The cobblestones were once paved straight, but those days are over and we are resigned to the grumbling of the squeaky unoiled horse carts through the town.

Do come in. It's going to rain again soon, I think. You can feel it in the air. Mind the step.

Have you been traveling long? Of course you have. Sit down, won't you? I'll get tea.

Fires burn in the fireplaces, lovely and simmering. Smoke claws out of the chimneys, only to be devoured by the saturated air.

Grey or chamomile? Do you have a preference? Oh dear, I've lost the teapot. It'll only be a second, you just rest there.

The chair is so warm and the day is so long. The fabric is so worn and the night is so muted.

There we go. The kettle's only, it'll only be a mo. Say, what's your name? I don't think I caught it. Oh here, take the blanket, love. Right on the arm of your chair---there you go. That's better, isn't it? Sorry, I was asking your name. What was it?

Her voice is gentle yet with substance. She is the kind of woman that does not get wrinkled nor weathered, but is instead halfheartedly creased before the world decides that it liked her better without all the folds and consents to leave her as she is. Her cheeks are still full and dimpled, the kind of cheeks where you can still almost see the youth, if you work hard enough to see it.

Oh that's a gorgeous name, that is. You're from the north, with a name like that. What brings you out so far?

The rain taps tentatively on the roof, seeing if it is welcome.

That's a right far journey ahead of you, then. Oop, I think that's the kettle, let me just check on that. One second, is all.

And then it comes down, faster and faster, gaining confidence and speed.

Looks just about there. Chamomile, you said? Dear Lord, listen to that roof. I told you it would rain.

And then it barrels without abandon onto that little thatched roof, and for a moment it is surprising that it does not collapse inward with the pressure, but it holds strong. 
How old is that woman, that woman standing over the kettle? No one knows. There is no way to know, and somehow it is clear that she is not about to reveal that bit of information to anyone. There is no reason to care about that kind of information, anyway. She is not a creature that ages, only one that matures.

There we go. Here's a cup for you, is that warm enough? Breathe in the steam, it's good for you. Now, dear, tell me about everything. From the day you were born until this very moment. On nights like these, it's good to have a talk, don't you think?

The day so long, the night so muted. The rain so sharp, the tea so soft.

These are the nights where nostalgia lurks.
These are the nights where stories reign.