I don't own LotR
For the next few months Boromir's routine was the same; train for three weeks, sneak out on the first day of the fourth. If Wyniel caught on she never showed, and Boromir soon became discouraged by her indifferent behavior. But a few weeks into the new year, Boromir had a legitimate excuse - he had actually torn his cloak. When he presented Wyniel with it, however, he was greeted with silence.
Mouth agape, Wyniel stuttered, almost in a whisper "This is yours? W-Where did you…How…Oh, stars. This is…beautiful, utterly superb, it must be the work of a master." Her expression was of complete awe.
"It's been in my family, I suppose. I tore it on a door hinge, actually. Can you fix it?" Boromir asked, slightly taken aback by the reception of his cloak.
"I-I dare not, this is far beyond my skill to mend, I-…hang on." Wyniel bounced up from her stool and took the stairs two at a time. Boromir, in her absence, looked about the small room. He noticed the immaculately clean floor, devoid of any loose thread, and the wearing curtains, hanging upon dark but apparently dusted rods. The smoky glass itself was sparkling in the sunshine and illuminated the almost-empty room with pink light. Two pairs of feet descended the stairs towards the end of Boromir's inspection, and upon turning he saw Wynduin, the widow, in a dark brown mantle. She seemed utterly miserable with sagging skin and a pale complexion, but smiled at the back of Wyniel as she skipped down the stairs.
"Hello, young man." Wynduin spoke, her voice full of experience. Upon inspecting his cloak her face brightened, then darkened. Wyniel smiled first at her mother, then at Boromir.
"Well?" the daughter asked. "Can you do it, mother?"
Wynduin took time to assent, then cracked her knuckles and sent both children out the door. She needed to concentrate for this job.