As midnight approached, Blanche was whisked away by her auntie.
She was in a huff, refusing to speak to her auntie because yesterday she'd promised a summer outfit, only to renege—it felt like a cruel joke, leaving Blanche's hopes dashed like a popped balloon.
Back home in their modest apartment nestled in The Old Quarter—a cramped space with faded wallpaper peeling at the edges, the air thick with the lingering scent of spiced broth paste from dinner and the faint mustiness of old red-brick tenement walls—Blanche made a beeline for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. She lingered inside far longer than usual, the sound of running water echoing through the thin walls, steam seeping under the door like morning fog rolling off the Amber Tide River.
Iris Marlowe called out impatien
