The French Quarter had its own rhythm, a heartbeat that pulsed beneath cobblestones and balconies dripping with wrought-iron vines. Lorraine felt it as she walked, her sandals clacking against uneven stone, the humid air clinging to her skin. She’d set out with nothing more than the intent to find a small bookstore she’d noticed earlier in the week, one that seemed to sag with history, its windows filled with cracked leather spines and maps of the old city.
For a little while, she allowed herself to be a tourist again, weaving past artists sketching in Jackson Square, the brass horns of a jazz trio cutting sharp through the air. But then, just as she turned onto a quieter street lined with shuttered shops, the recent past found her.
“Lorraine.”
The sound of her name froze her mid-step.
