A memory returned.
I was five years old, standing in our old kitchen while my mother wrapped the scarf around my shoulders.
“Now you’re a queen,” she said.
“Queens need crowns.”
“Only ordinary queens.”
Her voice came back so clearly that I nearly turned, certain she was behind me.
But the porch was empty.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, the cabin smelled of cedar, dust, and cold ashes. Furniture stood beneath white covers. An old clock rested above the fireplace, stopped at 4:17.
On the table sat a lantern, a box of matches, and another envelope bearing my name.
I opened it.
Dear Anna,
Before you search beneath the floorboards, light the lantern. The electricity was disconnected years ago, and dawn will not reach this room immediately.
You were always afraid of dark rooms when you were little, though you pretended otherwise.
My hands tightened around the note.
That was not something I remembered telling Carl.
