The first light of dawn filtered through the lace curtains, casting delicate shadows on the weathered wooden floor. Maria, barely ten, perched by the window, her wide, dark eyes tracking the delicate dance of shadows.

Summer mornings in New Orleans carried a thick humidity, wrapping around everything like an intimate, heavy blanket. Grandma Berthe hummed softly in the kitchen, the aroma of chicory coffee seeping into every corner of their small Creole cottage.

Maria’s fingers traced the worn patterns of the window sill, her mind entangled in the questions that swam just beneath her consciousness. She had learned early on that their home whispered secrets – secrets that only someone with patience and a sharp curiosity could uncover.

“Maria, come help me with breakfast,” Grandma Berthe’s voice called, rich and sonorous, breaking through the girl’s reverie. Sliding off her perch, Maria padded barefoot into the kitchen.

The cool tiles felt like solace against the growing heat. Grandma Berthe stood tall despite her years, her silver hair neatly pinned back, her fingers deftly moving as she prepared the morning meal.

“There you are,” she smiled, showing the gap where she’d lost a tooth to age years ago. “It’s a special day today.

”. .