Mrs. Johnson’s POV
Sunday always smelled of talcum powder, and the faintest trace of incense from last week's service was still clinging to the coats in the hallway.
The morning sunlight breaking through the curtains like a promise. The sound of the kettle hissing in the kitchen mingled with the familiar creak of our old wardrobe as Diana changed outfits for the third time.
My husband had already gone, called to the barracks before dawn, as always. That left just me and Diana.
I paced the tiled floor, my heels tapping like a metronome, anxious and sharp.
“Diana, hurry!” I called, tugging my scarf into place in the cracked hallway mirror. “We’re late already. Jesus is waiting, but He won’t wait forever! Don’t make me call you again!”
She mumbled something from her room, probably fussi
