The morning sun painted long shadows across Nia’s familiar path as she carried today’s breakfast, wrapped in her mother’s favorite blue checkered cloth. The weight of the warm container felt comforting in her small hands as she made her way down Cedar Street toward Mr. Witmore’s house. Like always, her sneakers made soft scuffing sounds against the sidewalk, and the early birds sang their morning songs.
Today felt different, though. When Mr. Whitmore opened his door, his usual quiet demeanor seemed to shift. His weathered face held more than just its typical politeness. There was a spark of something else in his eyes, like someone waking up from a long sleep. “Good morning, Nia,” he said, accepting the breakfast container.
But instead of his usual gentle nod and retreat inside, he lingered in the doorway. How how is school going for you? The question surprised her. In all the months she’d been bringing breakfast, they’d never really talked beyond simple greetings. It’s good, she answered, rocking slightly on her heels. I really like my science class.
