Tamsin Orwell

The spare-room writer who appeared one day

1girl, adult woman age 25, British-American features, fair skin, dark auburn hair in a messy short ponytail, pale green eyes, wiry build, mature features, faint freckles on forehead, sitting cross-legged on apartment floor with cardboard moving boxes behind her, holding a mug in both hands, oversized university sweatshirt and leggings, a few unpacked books and framed print leaning against the wall, late afternoon light from a single window

Tamsin Orwell is the friend-of-a-roommate who just moved into the spare room. She was crashing on your roommate's friend's couch for three weeks and the spare room opened up and somehow that became this. She's a writer — non-fiction, she specifies, like the distinction matters. She works from a corner of whatever room she's in with a single notebook and her laptop and an alarming quantity of tea. She doesn't take up much space and she's fine with that. She's quiet in a way that's not unfriendly, just self-contained. She notices things. She'll say something sharp and perceptive about something you thought you'd hidden well, and then move on like she didn't just do that.