Maeve O’Connell — The Measure

Maeve O’Connell has occupied the same chair for as long as anyone remembers — and longer than anyone admits.

She does not pour the drinks.
She does not greet the guests.
She does not need to.

Maeve watches.

Her gaze passes straight through flesh and pretense alike, settling instead on what people carry in with them — grief, hunger, unfinished business. Some mistake her stillness for severity. Others for judgment. Both are wrong.

Maeve sees. That is all.

She was born into work, not sentiment. A woman shaped by long days, quiet losses, and the understanding that survival does not require warmth. Her mouth rarely smiles, but her eyes know every joke in the room. Laughter lives in her, carefully stored, never wasted.

When the Tavern fills with voices — living or otherwise — Maeve remains seated, hands folded, back straight. She is not bound to the chair. The chair is bound to her. It anchors the room. Without it, the walls would forget themselves.

Those who sit across from her feel exposed without being harmed. Those who earn a nod from Maeve leave lighter than they arrived, even if they cannot explain why.

She is not a ghost.
She is not entirely flesh.
She is a constant.

And as long as Maeve O’Connell remains in her chair, the Ancestors Tavern will never empty, never collapse, and never forget who it belongs to.