The morning sky hung heavy with dark clouds as Nia stepped out of her house, carefully balancing the wrapped breakfast in her hands. The air felt thick and damp, warning of the storm to come. She had barely made it halfway down the street when the first fat raindrops began to fall, quickly turning into a steady downpour. By the time she reached Mr.
Witmore’s porch, her jacket was soaked through, though she’d managed to keep the breakfast dry by hugging it close to her chest. The old wooden porch creaked as she hurried under its shelter, water dripping from her braids. The door opened before she could knock. Good heavens, child. You’re soaked through, Aaliyah said, his weathered face creased with concern.
Please come inside where it’s warm, just for a moment until the rain lets up. Nia hesitated, remembering her mother’s rules about entering strangers homes. But Mr. Witmore didn’t feel like a stranger anymore, and the rain was coming down harder now, drumming against the porch roof. I can make you some tea, he offered gently to warm you up.
