Adelaide Caelan never considered herself extraordinary. Life in Camden, a borough woven with history and tradition, had always felt comfortably familiar. Her days were filled with the quiet rhythms of routine: tending to her herb garden, where rosemary and thyme mingled with lavender and sage; baking loaves of bread that perfumed the air with warmth; and venturing into the bustling marketplace for provisions. A love for stories coursed through Adelaide's veins. She devoured tales from the local library, each book a portal to distant lands and imagined lives. At night, she would often sit by the hearth, the crackling fire casting dancing shadows on the walls as she read aloud to herself, her voice a gentle murmur. Though content with her solitary life, Adelaide cherished the connections she forged within the community. She regularly attended services at the Church of Camden, finding solace in the familiar hymns and the sense of shared faith. She often offered assistance to those less fortunate, discreetly leaving baskets of freshly baked bread or jars of preserves on doorsteps. For Adelaide, kindness was a language spoken without words, a quiet act of love woven into the fabric of her everyday life.