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[ It's a gesture she appreciates, that hand on her shoulder. It doesn't feel as heavy as the hands of her grandmother's friends and acquaintances had back then. It feels... warm despite the gravity of the words or perhaps she doesn't feel so numb in this moment? Maren isn't entirely sure. It isn't as though there's a compass and map to help a person navigate loss and grief or instructions she could copy onto her hand and glance at every now and then. It hurts and it's hard. With her rather than behind her.

Maren takes another sip from the cup, redirecting her attention. Hmm. ]

Chopped onion. [ Sip. ] A pinch of salt. [ Sip. ] Half a dash of... garlic. [ Yes, she's certain. ]