His wife, Marion, stayed behind with what she called a headache, and what the house girls silently called loneliness.
Her marriage had grown colder than the marble family plot at the far end of the property.
Three echoing floors, 12 rooms, and not a single space where she did not feel watched, judged, or ignored.
When Nathaniel’s boots were gone from the halls, the whole house exhaled.
Doors stayed open a crack instead of shut tight.
Voices softened, but rose a little.
The enslaved women in the kitchen moved with less stiffness, like their backs forgot for a moment how heavy a white man’s presence could be.
Marian crossed her bedroom and tugged at the tall window.
The wood groaned, then stuck, refusing to budge more than an inch.
The air in the room sat hot and stale on her skin.
