Eleven had just finished with the cake, carefully setting it out to cool in the kitchen before retreating upstairs to her room — the same room she had called her own since she was eight. The familiarity of it was comforting with a blend of nostalgia. She slipped out of her flour-dusted dress, now reduced to her petticoat, and padded softly to the adjoining bathroom. Cool water rinsed the remnants of her labor from her face and hands.
Emerging refreshed, she crossed to the tall oak cupboard, its hinges creaking faintly as she opened it. She selected a dress adorned with delicate floral patterns, its soft hues reminiscent of a spring meadow. Sliding into it, she moved to her vanity table, intending to pick up her powder brush when her gaze landed on something else entirely. Her journal. The thick, brown leather covered book seemed to beckon her, and her heart skipped a beat.
