*Hattie*
Saturday morning, I wake up to what sounds like thunder before the sun has fully risen. I rub my eyes and notice a strange stillness in the room. With a jolt, I gasp at the realization: that’s not thunder.
I roll toward the other side of the bed. It’s cold. Charlie isn’t there.
I sit up slowly, heart pounding, glancing around the room. Maybe she rose early and went downstairs to help Mrs. Monroe. But I know better. I feel it in my chest. That sharp, suffocating pain of knowing something is terribly wrong.
“Charlie?” I whisper. I don’t want to wake the rest of the house. I stand and quickly step into my dress. The boards beneath my feet creak with each step down the hall.
By the time I reach the kitchen, the scent of woodsmoke and baking bread hits me. Mrs. Monroe stands at
