Chapter 4
Miss Edna's Secret
The bell rings, and Billy prepares to slip out of the classroom unnoticed. But Miss Edna calls his name softly, a hand on his shoulder guiding him to her desk. He braces for a reprimand, but instead she pulls out a worn picture book, its cover curling with age. She opens it to sepia photographs of Rodney Mississippi: the old mill, the first mercantile, the river before the bridge was built. Billy’s eyes lock onto each image, drinking in details like a thirsty ground soaking rain. He traces a finger over a picture of a boy his age, standing by the same river. Miss Edna watches his face transform from fear to wonder. She says nothing, knowing that sometimes stories are not read in words but seen in light and shadow.
The bell’s echo still hung in the dusty air of the classroom, a final, fading note that sent the other children scrambling for the door. Books slapped shut. Chairs scraped against the worn wooden floor. Laughter and the shuffle of feet filled the narrow hallway beyond, a current of noise that carried them all away from the quiet space where Billy still sat, frozen in his seat near the back window.
He watched them go, a parade of backs and swinging lunch pails, and felt the familiar relief wash over him. Another day done. Another day of staring at letters that refused to make sense, of numbers that danced and slid off the page like water off a stone. He waited, counting the seconds in his head, as he always did, until the last sound died away. Then he gathered his things—a chewed pencil, a single tablet of paper with only a few faint smudges where he’d tried to copy the alphabet—and stood.
He was halfway to the door, one hand already reaching for the cool iron handle, when her voice came, soft as a feather landing on a still pond.
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