The morning had been quiet, almost too quiet for spring.

The clock on the wall ticked in a steady rhythm that felt louder than it should have.

I was bent over a table, stitching a hem that had been giving me trouble for days.

The bell above the door chimed and I did not look up at first.

I thought it might be a courier or a neighbor.

Then I heard a voice that carried a mixture of nervousness and hope.

“Juliana,” one of them said softly.

There was hesitation in the way my name left their ...