September 22nd, Sunday, Whitebeard's Bar:
Rose Wert, a woman in her thirties who had taken up residence in Whitebeard's once-private room, was nearing the end of her self-given cleaning duties within the bar.
She donned a recently acquired maid outfit and held a cloth in her hand, diligently tending to the bar counter.
Whitebeard, seated in close proximity to the bar, offered a comment, "Rose, it's really not necessary. This place will get messy as soon as a few patrons arrive for drinks."
Pausing in her task, Rose turned to him, beads of sweat on her forehead. "I want to. It's the least I can do, Whitey."
Whitebeard emptied his glass of whiskey and mused, "You know, you remind me of my late wife. She was always on her feet, keeping the house in order. Well, I don't have that house anymore, or her," he added, fumbling for a cigarette in his pockets.
