The Invincible Summer of Juniper Jones

The ornamented piece of paper felt thin and brittle in your aged fingers. Sixty years. Sixty years since you swore you’d never set foot in Ellison, Alabama, again. But the name typed neatly on the funeral invitation had frozen you on the front stoop, the rest of the mail scattered like fallen leaves. Inside, the house was warm, familiar, a stark contrast to the sudden chill that gripped your chest. You stumbled back into the kitchen, your body trembling, the sound of a falling vase shattering the quiet like a gunshot. Eleanor's voice, full of gentle concern, called your name from the stairs. She entered, her sensible presence a comforting anchor in the storm of your resurfacing memories. She saw the mess, the letter clutched in your hand, and her expression shifted as she read, the truth dawning in her eyes.