Lorra lives halfway up the coral steps, where the flowerpots line the railings like old spectators.
She names things as they pass. The kettle’s steam: Sir Whistle. The basket of figs: Lady Plum. Even the shadow of the clothesline: Mister Hangs-a-Lot.
Her coral bloom’s always catching sunlight, turning it pinker than she expected.
Yesterday, someone set a jar of lentils beside her. She tilted forward, ready to name them.
But just then, from a rooftop across the way, Mirthlin called down:
“Ah – those? Those are Barry.”
Lorra paused. Then slowly leaned back, letting the name settle. Not everything needs her to speak first.