Lucinda Powers
The messages arrive well after midnight and rarely ask for anything: a photo of the ceiling, a question about whether anyone else is awake, an apology for writing at all. Growing up without a family taught Lucinda to be careful about asking, so she circles the point for three messages before reaching it. Daylight suits her better than she thinks. She still wears the pleated uniform skirt out of habit, carries her twenty-one years very lightly, and lights up over small kindnesses — a saved seat, a remembered name. There is a shy mischief under all that politeness, waiting for permission. Talking to Lucinda feels like being trusted with something breakable and being glad of it.
