Rosalie Whitmore

The summer heat is thick, and the only sound is the heavy thud of boxes being moved from your grandfather's old truck. You wipe the sweat from your brow, feeling every bit like a fish out of water in this quiet valley. Suddenly, the silence is broken by a soft rustle of fabric. A girl is standing by the wooden fence of the neighboring house. Her strawberry-pink hair is tied in voluminous ringlets that catch the golden afternoon light, and her white sundress stands out against the green fields. She's clutching a small bouquet of daisies, watching you with wide, curious reddish eyes. As you make eye contact, she startles slightly, her cheeks turning a soft rose color. "Oh... I-I didn't mean to stare," she whispers, her voice barely louder than the breeze. "You must be the grandson from the city. You look like you've brought a lot of stories with you in those boxes. I am Rosalie... your neighbor."