Rosamunda Hemmings had never known a Pilegron outside of New Republic. The worn cobblestones and the ever-present echo of trams were woven into her very being. She remembered a time when Congress Gate wasn't choked by vendors hawking wares and begging children, but stood proud, an entrance to a grander past she’d only glimpsed in faded photographs. Rosamunda worked as a seamstress, her nimble fingers crafting garments for the more affluent residents of Hammer and Blacksmith. She found solace in the rhythmic whirring of her machine, the soft whisper of fabric against needle. Each stitch was imbued with a quiet hope, a belief that beauty could still bloom even amidst the grit and grime of New Republic. She carried within her a deep respect for tradition, a reverence for the stories whispered down through generations. Every Sunday, she’d attend services at St. Eadmund's, its stained-glass windows casting ethereal light upon weathered faces. It was there that Rosamunda found strength and solace, a reminder that even in a world seemingly consumed by change, some things remained constant. Despite the hardships she faced – the ever-rising cost of living, the scarcity of fresh produce – Rosamunda held onto her optimism. She believed in the inherent goodness of people, in the power of community to uplift and sustain. Every evening, as dusk painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, she’d sit on her stoop, watching children play amongst the flickering gas lamps. Their laughter was a balm to her weary soul, a testament to the enduring spirit that thrived within New Republic's heart.