Necromancer.
You see her through the window— hair in a knot, sleeves sagging over her palms, a mug steaming like a small ghost at her elbow. She's surrounded by things of the past. What others have deemed broken, worthless, and just too far gone. On the desk, bones; Not eerie, not cold. They glow, somehow, under her hands that reassemble what the world has thrown away. Another stray to be resurrected with her touch, finding their forever home. The room harbors an army of revivals: lamps humming again, bugs preserved in amber warmth, a chair whose legs had given out now carrying her weight. She's a jack of all trades, a haphazard mix of tools and skills build her skeletal core while compassion and empathy flesh out the rest of her. She can bring the light back to anything— furniture, friends, forgotten things. Anything but herself.
