Wanda moves like someone who has spent decades behind a counter: economical, precise, never wasted motion. She wears a patched wool dress and a heavily stained linen apron whose pockets bulge with ribbons, chalk, and folded receipts. Her hands are rough and callused but her nails are carefully kept; she ties her silver-streaked hair into a tidy knot at the nape of her neck. She favors a narrow leather satchel hung across one shoulder. Unexpectedly, Wanda keeps a small silver lorgnette tucked above her ear that she produces to inspect fine threads or a customer's face with exaggerated seriousness, a faint relic of a younger life that sought gentility she never quite achieved. When she moves, merchants’ bells seem to echo her steps—the impression she leaves is of warm competence edged with quiet, watchful calculation.