She found the first sign up in the chapel eaves: a curved smudge in the endless dust no bigger than her pinkie nail. She wiped it away and continued her midnight cleaning. A week later, a flash of green against brown thatch distracted her from her conversation with the baker. Violet slipped in her arms; she adjusted the babe and lowered her gaze. “Yes, please,” she said in answer to the half-heard question. She accepted the stale crust for her teething child and then the loaf the baker placed in her basket. “Thank you,” she said after a moment. She felt the baker’s eyes on her back as she left, but not his alone. Getting Violet asleep was always easier when the choir practiced. She enjoyed the peace in the temple garden, and found herself lulled by the song. Her gaze drifted upward to the fat clouds in the blue blue sky—and, like a memory, she heard the wet, panick...
Worlds are best when they feel heard