Ribbons of experience and soot mark her hands. She moves with the steady, unhurried economy of someone who has spent decades behind a bar. Her face is round and warm, lined at the corners from years of half-laughs and squinting at late-night customers, but one eye bears a faint white crescent scar that still tightens when she's angry. She favors leaning on the bar with an elbow and a foot hooked on the lower rail. Unexpectedly, she wears a small iron ring threaded through the edge of her apron that clinks like a tiny bell when she walks, an odd contrast to the soft, flour-dusted cloth of her sleeves.