She didn’t speak at first. She just studied me with eyes that didn’t blink enough.
“You notice her, too?” I whispered to myself before I could stop it, catching the ghost of Mrs. Cross in the hall mirror.
“What did you say?” Sarah’s voice was low, curious.
“Nothing, miss.” I lied fast, and my chest tightened.
Sarah’s pencil paused over the page. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I stared at the linen stack like it might rescue me. “I try my best, miss.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t kindness. It was interest. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”
I left the room with my stomach turning, feeling her gaze on my back the way you feel a thunderhead build long before it breaks.
That night, the storm came.
Thunder rolled over the fields like a drumbeat of something marching closer. Rain hit the roof hard enough to sound like thrown gravel. Water found its way through cracks no carpenter bothered to fix for people like us.
