Outside, the corn whispers as the wind bends around the house, listening. Neighbors pretend not to notice.
I think about the attic. Sometimes I imagine climbing the ladder, letting in the air taste of dust and secrets.
Ma says grace. Dad grunts. The stew shivers but no one laughs.
Ma sits at the head,face shiny with heat and holiness as she stirs her stew like it owes answers."Eat," she says, voice soft,but her eyes dared anyone to speak.Her cross necklace trembling.
Dad doesn't. He hammers the table instead, building something only he can see."Roof's sagging againg," he mutters. "Weight wrong."
No one asked what he meant by weight,
I stare at the shadows crawling across the walls, thinking about the attic's door again, hoping it might sway open just a crack. I want to ask it what secrets hide under the dust and old floorboards, secrets that might explain the way the cornfield breathes at dusk, the way it seems to lean in close when no one is watching. Outside, crickets shift in the dark, murmuring secrets of their own.
Ma's prayers float through the air, mixing with the distant sound of Dad's hammer. They blend into a rhythm that almost comforts me. Maybe if I close my eyes tight enough, I can drown out my thoughts, let the night cradle me like a lullaby.