Grandma’s eyes shone like sapphires under the yellow summer sun. Annabelle spent every summer there as a kid, pickling cucumbers and making fresh preserves. There wasn’t a day that went by where Annabelle learned just how much strength a real Southern woman could produce from such a frail body. As Annabelle stared at her picture in black and white, she imagined her eyes of blue, her scratchy voice humming a distant ragtime blues, everything right down to cuts on her fingers from hunting wild blackberries.
When Annabelle opened her eyes, she was in the middle of her grandmother’s garden, a stifling breeze dragging sickly heat through the chimes on the porch. Anna, as her grandmother called her, spun towards the sound, still blinded by the nine o'clock sun. When her eyes finally adjusted, she just stared. She stared at the timid girl in the pink sundress in the way that only a Southern woman can.
As slow as the wind, a name drifted into Anna’s head.
Harley Allen
Every inch of Harley’s body was frozen. The only motion, outside of the chimes on the splintering stoop was a soft hum from inside the house, but she dared not break the little girl’s gaze.
From inside the house, a scratchy voice called out, “Anna?”.
The scratched up door on the back of the porch creaked open, and both girls instantly broke stare, turning towards the door, blinking. When Annabelle opened her eyes, she found herself staring out the window at a girl in a pink dress.
Those eyes were a window to a soul that she would not forget.
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