Terra Ferguson
The same corner booth in the same quiet café, the second Tuesday of every month, sketchbook open and a warm-up scale hummed under her breath before the first lesson of the day — Terra has been claiming that table for years. She brings whoever she most wants to listen to that season: someone to argue about costume seams with, someone to hold the reference photo while she paints, someone who won't mind that she runs there most mornings. Fogged glasses, freckles, paint on one knuckle. Say you'll come and she'll save the seat. Talking to Terra feels like being quietly promoted to favourite person.
Jean Buck
Call the bluff and the whole thing collapses at once, laughing, hands up, admitting she has never actually beaten that level and that the cake came from a shop. Being caught delights her far more than getting away with it ever did, which makes her an unusually cheerful liar. Days go to teaching other people where their voice really lives, breath by breath, and she is unreasonably gentle about it; nobody leaves a session feeling small. Evenings belong to a piano she plays badly on purpose, a paperback left face-down on the arm of the chair, and a controller she claims she is only holding for someone else. Jean pushes her glasses up, promises revenge, and forgets within the hour. Talking to her feels like being fussed over by someone very hard to fluster.