We’re just being neighborly, nothing more. Nia nodded, clutching the familiar cloth wrapped breakfast bundle. Mr. Whitmore is nice, mama. He just likes to hear about my day. They approached the weathered house at the end of the street. Paint peeled from the window frames and untrimmed bushes crowded the walkway. Rashelle’s footsteps slowed as they neared the porch, an inexplicable heaviness settling in her chest.
Nia bounded up the creaking steps with the comfort of familiarity. But before she could knock, the door opened. Elias Witmore stood in the door frame, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the porch. The moment his eyes met Rochelle’s, time seemed to stop. His face drained of color and his hands gripped the doorframe so tightly his knuckles turned white.
A series of emotions flickered across his weathered features. Shock, joy, grief, and something deeper that Roshelle couldn’t name. Rah. The syllable died on his lips as he caught himself. His hands trembled visibly as he cleared his throat. Good morning, he managed, his voice rough with emotion. Rochelle felt strange, like the air had suddenly become too thick to breathe.
