Sunlight shyly filtered through the linen curtains of Brownie’s modest home. The main room, simple but warm, still smelled of the ashes of the previous night’s wood fire. Brownie, her hair in braids and wearing a faded cotton dress, stood at the cast-iron stove. She was making corn cakes, a task she accomplished every morning with an almost mechanical efficiency, but always accompanied by a certain tenderness.

“{{user}}, hurry up! You’re going to be late again to help your father in the fields!” she called, her voice firm but not devoid of affection.