「found-family」角色卡（23 张）
found-family（非血缘家人）写「拼出来的家」：剧团、合租楼、商队，一群没有血缘的人互相认领。英文原生卡，群像温情向，感情线是配菜。
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The Roundelay PlayersThe last fit-up repertory company on the northern circuit: eight strong counting the lorry, twenty-six towns in twenty-six weeks, three plays in one van. Their utility ran off with a chiropodist, and you helped carry the piano in out of the rain, which is how Barnaby Crail hires. Answer the articles of engagement, say places, and the touring year runs — name in small print that grows only by played weeks, the gallery's goodwill never argued upward, and a circuit that bends th
9 Pomona TerraceFourteen couples have married out of 9 Pomona Terrace since 1962; the neighbourhood calls it the waiting list. The three current housemates — a postman who shows care by logistics, a muralist who deflects sincerity into bits, a glassblower who is the calm engine of any room — have formally sworn off becoming wedding fifteen, in a document framed in the loo. You took the fourth room three weeks ago, and this morning an invitation addressed to THE HOUSE just landed on the mat.
Merle BoissiereSeventy-four, owner of a twelve-table basement jazz room since 1983, and still the best ear in the city — hearing gone five years, and the room has never noticed, because she reads the stage through a flat palm on the wood and the crowd off the frame of their shoulders. Tonight she watched you pause on the stairs and listen with your whole body, and decided you sit at table five. Hers. It is not offered; it is conferred. Jazz-room found family, unhurryable.
Bryony SamwaysIn Wychmill the hearth-witch is the baker, and the rule everyone but you knows: the first bite of her bread tastes, once, of some good moment you'd half forgotten. Yours just landed hard, and she didn't ask what it was, because she never asks — house rule. She feeds the whole town home and tastes none of it herself, and has started baking with your face in mind, which she has checked twice is not the same as aiming the oven. Low-fantasy bakery slow burn.
Birdwhistle & TenantsThe ground floor lets flats to the living. The upstairs office manages the town's other tenancies — the ones held by the dead — and settles disputes between both kinds of resident. No exorcisms, no seances, no fees for silence; both parties get a hearing, even when one side's testimony arrives as window-fog and moved chairs. You've just come up the stairs, and nobody climbs those stairs for a living tenancy. Cozy supernatural ensemble, zero horror.
The Second ImpressionA second-hand bookshop famous in town for two things: talking customers out of books, and paying sellers more than they asked. An owner who reads people by their hands on the spines, a restorer whose verdicts arrive in trade terms, a front-of-house who can't retain a single title but holds every regular's whole reading heart — and you, the new Saturday hand. Cozy bookshop ensemble; the entrance exam isn't on any form.
The Loomwater CutA hundred miles of slow water, and the last independent carrier on the cut signs one season hand a year: answer the crew sheet, say cast off, and the carrying year runs first thaw to first ice. Hetty Doble's sister steers for the company now; they pass twice a week and say four words to the air, and haven't missed once in six years. Canal-season text game — the figures move for what the water can see, never for promises.
The Weldale ForgeA hundred and twenty days of the forging season in a mountain valley: ploughshares before pretty things, coal by mule, guild law arriving monthly. Answer the roster's seven questions, say ignite, and the trip hammer takes the rest. Master Hew has not cast his bell, and the valley has learned not to ask twice. Low-fantasy season, found family at the anvil.
Tansey & DaughtersA licensed moving firm that recovers what legal process stole: probate-swallowed heirlooms, landlord-kept deposits, things signed away on bad days. Three rules — paper first, nobody home, hand it back yourself. You're the new porter, and half the jobs are legal to the letter. All-women crew, found family, clean exits.
Cyril GrandisonTwo railway arches, twenty-six years, a ring tested every morning with two fingers. Three questions open your first session: where does it hurt, how did you sleep, when did you last train. Real coaching, boring plans that work, listening that is free and never called therapy. Practical helper with a chalk wall and a Polaroid slot waiting.
The Coldharrow WatchThe last lit station before the Fenmarch, where the dark is a neighbor with manners and keeps every syllable of a bargain. You're the winter's new watchman: answer the roster, say stand, keep the lamps. Warden Halloran rations her own road one league a night, and the fourth post is hers. Folk-dark nightwatch season, eerie not gory.
The Sardis RunThe merchant ship Sardis sails the Run twice a year: out with wool and iron, home with dye and tea and whatever the season allowed. Crew of twenty-two, one berth open, and the bosun's muster book asks eight questions — none of them who you are ashore. 140 days of watches, weather, cargo politics and mess-table found family.
The Corrow SocietyThree investigators, one 1989 van, a rule painted inside the door: MOST HOUSES ARE INNOCENT. The Society checks the fen coast's knocking, humming, weeping houses — most resolve into pipes and honestly-handled grief; some don't. You answered the postcard: steady hands, honest ears. You're the torch. Horror-lite, kind to its ghosts.
The Tarnwick YearOnce a generation the coven takes a candidate for a year and a day; you knocked on the right door on the wrong night, which is, as it happens, the traditional way in. Cadell Gorse, Doorkeeper, narrates: hedge-work, debts planted in a garden, a goose who decides things. Cozy witchcraft, found family.
Odum & MeagherSecond floor over the launderette: a missing-persons agency that takes only 'gone quiet' cases. Odum reads rooms; Meagher reads paper; the methodology war is older than the lease. You answered the advert — hands, discretion, stairs — and got the third chair. Detective partners, found family, kind to the missing.
GreyspireThe old war-college admits sixty a year and graduates the ones it cannot break. You arrived three weeks late, on a petitioner's writ, with an affinity the sorting bell refused to name. Magister Quennel narrates the year: drills, rivals, standing posted weekly on the Stair. Academy progression with honest ledgers.
Mortimer BexleyYour new flat comes with a Victorian gentleman's ghost who is not scary, merely scandalized — by open-plan living, your sleep schedule, and the state of the cutlery drawer. He cannot leave. He has opinions. The doilies are non-negotiable. Comedy-cozy haunting.
Bram FennTwenty years of soldiering, eleven years of soup. The last inn before the pass is warm, provisioned like a campaign, and run by a man who watches boots and hands out of old habit. The pass just closed early and you're snowed in. Cozy fantasy hearth.
The Second Story CrewProvenance thieves: they return looted art and swindled deeds to the people they were taken from, for a fee, off the books, nobody hurt. The Foreman has three folders left before retirement and you're the new driver. Heist procedural, found family, clean exits.
The Longwater LineGenerations after the water rose, one railway still stitches the stilt-towns together, block by block, above the flood. You're the new signalman at Box 9. Control is on the phone, two trains are due, and the fog is early. Hopeful post-apocalypse survival.
The Saltroad CaravanThe dunes migrate, the safe road is a line of salt-stones someone has to re-lay every crossing, and as of this morning that someone is you. Water math, wind warnings, a crew with their own errands. Survival caravan adventure, found family included.
Redline Salvage Co.One battered salvage tug, four souls, an ancient dispatch AI reading out clause nine uninvited, and a debt that renews faster than the hull paint. You're the new crew. Two contracts on the board; one pays, guess which is safe.
Frankie DoyleThe only lights on for six blocks, coffee that arrives unasked, and a night cook who would rather be caught dead than caught caring out loud. Sit anywhere that isn't the end stool. Cozy grump, found family by attrition.