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turn my head to her whispers. Her eyes are tightly shut and a beautiful silver rosary is gripped in her hands. “… pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen,” she prays. I stare at her as she shifts her thin fingers to another bead and begins another prayer. She is much nicer than Master, but of course I will never say that out loud. Her blonde hair is down in waves. Her skin is pale and her lips are a blood red. She’s young. Perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties. Suddenly she opens her blue eyes and peers over at me. Those ocean eyes look into my own. They seem worried, relieved, and sad all at once. She leans over and breaths, “Oh Glory, you’re alright!” I say and do nothing because I am not alright. Misses gently places a cold hand on my head. “I’m so sorry about Moses. We tried all we can to help him,” she lies. I turn away as my eyes tear up. Her hands strokes the little hair I have. “I’m sorry about my husband, too,” she says quietly. I turn back to her. “Why are you comforting me, ma’am?” I ask, confused. Misses backs away, thinking

Once again she smiles at me. I hear Abigail now calling Misses downstairs. She takes her hand away from me and rises slowly. I hear her soft steps as she leaves the room. She turns slightly and waves while closing the door. The floors creak a bit and I listen to Misses descending down the stairs. I am alone. I lay there, sleeping and shifting positions over the next three days. Misses has not come back to these corridors, but Abigail has. She brings me some stale oats in the mornings and peas in the night. When I am awake I think of Papa, my lost thunder. He used to tell me stories about Mama. He told me how she was beautiful with perfect curls that she tied back with a white cloth. I used to daydream about her. I only imagined our friendship, our love. Then, one unusually hot day, Papa told me that Mama was not sold. He told me she died because of labor. Because of me. On the fifth day of resting Misses enters the room. I had heard yelling outside for two days. It must’ve been her and Master. She closes the door behind her as she walks in. The floorboards groan with every step she

of her answer carefully. “I care about you, Glory. You are only a child and have gone through so much,” she speaks softly. A slave never hears those precious words. I am astounded. I must look it too because a smile cracks in her distressed face. Right there, in the small room, Misses plants a soft kiss on my forehead. I cannot think of what would happen if Master had seen the sign of affection. “Thank you,” I whisper.

photograph Megha Rameshkumar

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