Chelsea Hartman stared out of her bedroom window, a dull ache deep within her chest. Her once vibrant world had become a monochromatic landscape, devoid of laughter and girlhood friends. Just like every morning for the past few weeks, she watched as the sun peeked through the clouds that hung over Southern California. The sudden closure of her school just as she was about to return after Spring Break marked the beginning of her isolated life.

Chelsea’s mother, Laura, started every day with a freshly brewed cup of coffee. On those days when its scent wafted through the house, Chelsea would forget for an instant that things weren’t normal.

But it was the start of another day, and Chelsea sighed as she reluctantly dragged herself out of bed. She went through her routine with robotic precision: brushing her teeth, bathing, and changing into a clean pair of pajamas. With no school to attend or friends to meet up with, there was no need to wear real clothes.

"Good morning, sweetie," her mother said as Chelsea entered the kitchen. She handed Chelsea a plate of scrambled eggs and toast before sitting down at the table with her coffee.

"Morning," Chelsea mumbled, poking at her eggs with a fork. Her appetite seemed to have disappeared along with her social life.

"What will you do today?" her mother asked, trying to sound cheerful.

"Same as always," Chelsea replied, not even bothering to look up from her plate.

"Maybe things will get better by summer," her mother said with a forced smile. She knew how hard this isolation was on her daughter, especially now that the days were growing longer, but there was little she could do to help. They were all trapped in this strange new reality.

As Chelsea went about her day, a disquieting sight greeted her every time she glanced out of her room’s many windows: people cloaked in masks, moving stealthily along the sidewalks. Their eyes, visible above the cloth, darted with a mix of caution and paranoia. She would sometimes entertain herself by creating different scenarios to capture what she saw. If she was in a good mood or feeling silly, she would create scenarios that veered into the comical.

In one such scenario, the entire world population had grown a mustache overnight, even babies. Mustache masks became de rigueur, with only a few eschewing the new etiquette.

When Chelsea wasn’t doing school assignments that would never be handed in during class, she explored the worlds hidden within the pages of her books or created her own with pencils and paper. She longed for the days when she could run through the schoolyard with her friends, laughter filling the air as they played tag or climbed the playground set. Now, her only companions were the characters she met in her stories and the ones she imagined herself. So many quiet moments gave rise to daydreams of grand adventures where children faced down terrible monsters and always had someone by their side. Chelsea wished she could trade places with them, even if just for a little while.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across her room, Chelsea noticed with a sense of resignation the first spring blossoms had started to fade. She looked up at the old analog clock that ticked away on her wall. Another day had come and gone, and her world remained unchanged. She glanced at her calendar, counting the days since her school closed down – each one marked with a small “x.” There were so many of them now, a constant reminder of all the time lost. Chelsea crawled into bed, the weight of loneliness pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. As she drifted off to sleep, she prayed for a change, a way to escape the monotony of her life.

*****

Teresa cherished the sound of the school bell each morning and afternoon, signifying the beginning and conclusion of her lessons. In the afternoons, she watched as the big hand and little hand of the clock in her classroom met at the number 3. Within minutes of the final bell, she was stepping into her home, the weight of her leather-strapped books snug against her side. As she pushed open the wooden door to their modest living room, the soaring notes of Enrico Caruso's voice filled the air, streaming from the family radio.

Rolling her eyes playfully, Teresa remarked to herself, “‘O Sole Mia’ AGAIN?”

She watched as her mother, swaying gently with a dishcloth in hand, seemed lost in the music, a far-off look in her eyes. Teresa couldn't quite understand the appeal; it wasn't the kind of music her friends talked about or sang in the schoolyard. But for her parents, Caruso's voice had some magic that transported them to another place and time.

"Another day of learning, my dear?" her mother asked, a playful twinkle in her eyes.

Teresa nodded, her thoughts still tangled in the lessons of the day. "Yes, Mama. Today we learned about distant lands and the people who live there."

The thought of adventures far away filled Teresa with a mixture of excitement and longing. Much like Chelsea, Teresa wished for a grand escapade of her own, beyond the four walls of their home and the borders of their town. While she loved the familiarity of her surroundings, she often wondered what lay beyond the horizon, waiting to be discovered.

Settling down on the sofa, she began her homework, the rich melodies providing a familiar backdrop to her predinner routine.

Teresa was born in a small town in Western Pennsylvania. Built from the ground up only a decade or so before Teresa’s birth, its existence owed to the steel mill that loomed over it like a watchful giant. Erected in 1906, the mill transformed the previously verdant farmland into a manufacturing powerhouse, the backbone of American industry. It brought with it an influx of steel mill workers and laborers from Europe, Mexico, and the Southern United States, all working together to fulfill their dreams. The air was thick with soot and sweat, and the sounds of industry were a constant reminder of the town's purpose.

The town’s residents were survivors; they always had been. Most of their journeys to the new town had been arduous, and within a decade of their arrival, they were faced with more danger as the Spanish Flu epidemic hit hard in Pennsylvania. Having weathered that storm, they now faced each day with a steely determination.

Teresa Moretti's family was no exception. Her father, Giovanni, was a man of average build as were most immigrants of his era. Coming in at about 5’7” he was neither tall nor short, but he was strong and bore his calloused hands with pride. He had been working at the mill for a handful of years at the time Teresa was born. Both he and his wife, Maria, had emigrated from Italy with their oldest child. After settling in Millfield, the couple would go on to have a handful more children.

“Natural-born citizens,” Teresa’s father would always say, and the third was Teresa.

Leaving their cherished homeland was a profound sacrifice for the Morettis. They didn’t emigrate for mere ambition but for dire necessity. There was little opportunity in their home village, and several of their family members and neighbors had already made the journey to the States. It was a solace to realize that some of these friends and family would be waiting for them in the new country, but that never made it easy to leave behind familiar streets, cherished family members, and the comfort of a known language and culture.

Teresa’s house was situated on a narrow strip of level ground among the hills rising from the riverbank. A modest home, with only two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room, it stood between two worlds, the one above and the one below. Quarters were close, but their home was comfortable, a place of refuge and family warmth.

The sloping backyard was used for the family garden, and the fence at its rear separated the yard from the vast expanse beyond. From here the steel mill's smokestacks stretched towards the sky like protective sentinels, or maybe pipe organs, or perhaps the barrels of canons. The smokestacks were imposing even if their meaning wasn’t clear. Their billowing plumes of smoke cast a gray haze over the town, leaving every surface, including the once-white church, coated in a fine layer of soot.

Her front yard was level and about twenty feet deep, bounded by a small fence and a sidewalk before coming to the road that ran by her house. Across the street, the hill made another step upward, and about forty feet above street level sat the First Street school, the school Teresa attended. First Street School was a recent addition to the town built to accommodate the influx of families and all the children who would be born to them. Every time she walked out her front door, she was confronted with its immenseness, even during summer holidays and Christmas breaks.

Every day, the Moretti family gathered around the dinner table, filled with hearty homemade fare. As the days grew longer in the Spring, her father would retire to the porch after the evening meal while Teresa played in the yard.

"Look, Papa! I made a castle!" Teresa called out excitedly, her hands covered in dirt as she shaped the earth into lopsided towers and walls.

Giovanni watched, a smile gracing his lips at the sight of his daughter's creativity.

"Brava, Teresa," he praised, clapping his rough, calloused hands together. "You've built a fortress fit for a queen."

"May I be the queen, then?" Teresa asked, her eyes wide with hope. She didn't wait for her father's answer, instead crowning herself with a wreath of dandelions she had woven earlier.

Giovanni couldn't help but chuckle at her enthusiasm, nodding his approval.

"Of course, mia regina," he said, his voice warm with affection. "But remember, even queens must be strong and wise, just like their kingdoms."

He gestured towards the distant steel mill, the smoke stacks visible even from her front yard. They were a constant reminder of the life they had built for themselves. Teresa gazed at the mill, the curiosity that bubbled within her spilling over as she considered the world outside her queendom.

"What's it like there, Papa? In the mill, I mean."

"Ah, piccola" Giovanni sighed, memories of long days and nights spent laboring over molten metal flashing through his mind.

"It's a place of great power, where men forge the very bones of this nation, but it also demands much from those who work there."

"Is that why you're always so tired when you come home?" Teresa asked, her voice filled with concern.

"Si," Giovanni admitted, his eyes clouded with a mixture of pride and weariness.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the small town, the family joined Giovanni on the porch. Teresa, still wearing her crown of dandelions, sat beside her father, her small hands resting in her lap.

Her older brother, Marco, leaned against the porch railing, eyeing the crown with a teasing smirk. “That crown won’t last long, Teresa. Dandelions don’t stay pretty for very long.”

Teresa took her crown from her head and looked at it, her earlier joy dampened by his words. The once-vibrant yellow petals were already browning at the edges, and she suddenly felt a wave of sadness.

But laughter and spirited chatter filled the air around her, the Italian language rolling off the tongues of all around her like a song as they shared stories from their day. The warmth of the voices drew Teresa back into the moment, reminding her of the joy in simply being surrounded by family.

“How do you say ciao in English, Teresa?” her mother, Maria, asked in Italian, gesturing towards a passing neighbor.

“Uh, goodbye,” Teresa replied.

She had the benefit of being fluent in both English and Italian and often helped the older Italians in the neighborhood learn some English words.

*****

It didn’t bother Teresa much that her teachers at school didn’t speak the same language as her parents and most of her neighbors. For her, it was fun, like crossing from one country to another just by crossing the street. Teresa loved her school, sitting atop what seemed a massive hill, with a stately stone retaining wall and stone steps that led up to the entrance. There was something grand about putting schools up on a hill, and although Teresa was only in grade school, she knew that it meant something special that the school was high on a hill, that it somehow made it different, different than the things that were down below.

Teresa's shoes echoed through the school's dimly lit hallway as she rushed to her classroom. She was late to school today, having got a late start, and tired from a poor night’s sleep. The scent of chalk and wooden desks, freshly polished, was welcoming nonetheless, and she was happy to start her day among friends. She greeted classmates with a wave and a smile. "Buongiorno, Teresa!" called out Giuseppi, a friend whose parents had also been born in Italy. He shared Teresa’s love of learning, and the two had become fast friends. "Buongiorno, Joe," Teresa replied, as she took her seat, grinning from ear to ear.

"Good morning," Mrs. Thompson began, sweeping into the room with an air of quiet confidence. Every movement, from the way her glasses teetered on the bridge of her nose to her warm, reassuring smile, spoke of her experience and dedication. She was the kind of teacher who transformed classrooms into realms of possibility, making even the most mundane subjects come alive with passion.

"Today," she announced, her eyes sweeping across the eager faces before her, "marks the start of a new journey for all of you."

She gently placed her books on her desk, creating a soft, almost rhythmic sound.

"We're diving into the art of letter writing, a timeless skill that will serve you well throughout your lives. You will be assigned a pen pal from another part of the country, and the envelope you just received contains their name and address."

Teresa felt a jolt of excitement, imagining the thrill of sharing and receiving stories from someone far away. It wasn’t just about crafting sentences; it was about weaving connections, painting pictures with words, and broadening one’s horizons without leaving the classroom.

"Write," she whispered, the word holding a newfound magic.

Clutching the envelope Mrs. Thompson handed her, Teresa imagined it as a gateway, a ticket to uncharted territories. Every stroke of ink would be a step into another world, and she couldn't wait to embark on this adventure.

*****

Teresa sat in the dimly lit room, the cold wooden floorboards under her feet. Outside, distant chatter, the neigh of horses, car engines, and footsteps on the cobbled street filtered through. But inside, the room was hushed, the weight of reverence heavy in the air.

It was late Monday afternoon. Teresa and many of the other children from First Street School made their usual trek to Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary Church for their weekly catechism. With no Catholic school yet in the young town of Millfield, the kids were spared the daily rigors of parochial education, something for which they were secretly thankful.

The first thing the children encountered each week was Sister Agnes, standing in the front of the room, her voice taking on the rhythmic cadence of prayer. She had a habit of repeating the phrase, “Fear of the lord is the beginning of wisdom.” Teresa wasn’t sure what it meant, except for the fear part. And it wasn’t the Lord Sr. Agnes focused on but the devil, who was around every corner waiting to snatch souls of children into eternal damnation. Teresa tried to understand what eternal meant, an always fascinating concept for the young. Forever and ever. No matter, it all seemed too long to her whichever way it went. In Church, she heard about the endless hymn of praise, and even though Teresa loved God, she wondered how she could ever manage singing for that long.

During one specific lesson, Sister was quite determined to hammer home the lesson. For what felt like hours, Sister delved into terrifying descriptions of the devil. One of the devil’s most cunning deceptions was disguising himself to trick souls into following him. Sr. Agnes even told the children that the devil could work through them and their friends. Even something as simple as a child speaking in Church was cast as the devil’s work. This made Teresa wonder if every child was lost. But Sr. Agnes continued. Once the devil captured a soul, he revealed himself, red gleaming eyes, lizard skin, horns like daggers, and his long-tethered claws in their unbreakable clasp. Teresa was relieved when Sr. Agnes finally dismissed them, but fear remained with her through the evening and into the night. Once in bed, every shadow in her room seemed sinister, especially the one that looked like the devil's hand draped across the bottom of her bed. She became convinced that the devil had come to snatch her like a thief in the night. She pulled her covers up close around her face, trying to protect herself. She dared not look down on her bed again. Instead, she remained immobile, eyes open throughout the night until her mother discovered her the next morning frozen and stiff with panic.

*****

It was morning, and the sun streamed into Chelsea's room through the large windows of the Thompson household, illuminating her workspace. Her desk was a mosaic of textbooks, vibrant colored pencils, and a notebook filled with intricate doodles and class notes. A vase of fresh peonies – a testament to spring – added a fragrant touch.

Chelsea was immersed in her history assignment, focusing on the suffragettes who tirelessly campaigned for women's right to vote. As she sketched out the achievements of Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, her mother peeked into the room. “Working on the suffragette movement, huh? Need any insight?” Her eyes twinkled.

Chelsea’s mother had a penchant for taking up various causes including ones related to women’s liberation. While Chelsea found her lesson interesting, she was not nearly as enthusiastic as her mother. Chelsea thought her life seemed pretty good most of the time, and for those things that weren't so good, like her current isolation, she couldn’t see how the suffragettes would help with that.

Laura liked to think that Chelsea had the same passion and drive for causes that she herself had. In years past, she would bring Chelsea along to events supporting various causes. She would always make sure Chelsea was photographed with any of the important people there. Chelsea didn't mind. She loved her mother and spending time with her. Chelsea admired her mother’s dedication and was often in awe of her, as only a child can be. But she often felt torn between wanting to please her and pursuing her own interests.

"Ugh, I miss going to school and seeing my friends," Chelsea sighed, shutting her latest book with a sense of finality. "I just wish there was something more exciting going on right now." Her frustration was palpable, but Chelsea tried to focus on the positives. She had grown closer to her family, and their regular game nights had become a cherished tradition.

Chelsea's Los Angeles home was an elegant testament to the successful professional lives of her parents. The house was a sprawling two-story haven built in a contemporary style, blending modern architecture with hints of Spanish influence. A cobblestone driveway led to a grand entrance with a double door, beckoning visitors into a spacious foyer. They had furnished the house with tasteful modern decor, filled with plush furniture, abstract paintings, and a meticulously maintained garden. The sprawling, open-plan kitchen, the family's favorite gathering spot, had a view that overlooked their pool and the city beyond.

Chelsea had a room to herself full of windows. Open and bright on sunny days it could assume an air of gloom when clouds filled the sky. But it was a dream room for a preteen or any young or old person for that matter, complete with a bay window that offered panoramic views of the cityscape and distant hills. The room was tastefully decorated, with walls adorned in muted tones and pops of vibrant colors, echoing her youthful spirit and love for literature. A vast bookshelf, laden with books from floor to ceiling, dominated one wall, while the other housed her study area, brimming with school projects.

Her two younger brothers each had their own room as well, but they could almost always be found together in "their" den, especially now that school was on pause.

In the Thompson's wide-open kitchen, the evening's meal was in its final stages of preparation. The countertops were an array of practicality, with a sheet pan of roast potatoes seasoned with rosemary and olive oil, and a simple, yet vibrant, green salad awaiting its dressing. At the heart of this domestic tableau was the brisket, slow cooked to perfection, nestled in its roasting pan.

As Laura checked the brisket, the aroma acted as a siren call to Chelsea, pulling her away from her notes on the suffragettes. Mark, Chelsea’s dad, his evening commute a short walk down the hall from his in-home office, entered the kitchen.

"Dinner smells great," he said, giving Laura a casual peck on the cheek.

"Thanks, love," she replied, motioning to Chelsea. "Can you finish the salad? Just toss it with the vinaigrette."

Chelsea complied, her movements fluid from many evenings spent assisting in these small rituals. The boys, recognizing the imminent start of dinner, set the table, a chore that had been delegated to them only recently.  This evening it was Josh’s turn to set down the plates, and Will’s turn to place the silverware.

Mark, holding onto a slice of normalcy in their daily routine, raised his water glass. "To us," he said with a soft smile, "and the small joys that day by day, make our lives whole."

Glasses clinked, and the room was soon filled with the lively exchange of daily news, punctuated by the sounds of forks against plates. The salad was crisp and cool, the potatoes were comfortingly aromatic, and the brisket was just as tender and flavorful as they had anticipated. Family dinner around the sturdy oak table that sat just adjacent to the kitchen area had become a regular event lately, unlike during the previous year when everyone was running in opposite directions with work meetings and extracurricular activities. Laura loved to use the dinner hour to expound on the importance of understanding privilege, the power of the voice, and the need for systemic change. A ritual that only intensified with the advent of summer that year.

Chelsea’s father, on the other hand, was more reserved. He believed in leading by example and worked tirelessly to ensure justice was served in his court cases. On some nights, after dinner, he took a dip in their pool, looking up at the stars and pondering the vastness of the universe. He often shared stories from his youth, emphasizing the importance of hard work and integrity. On other nights, he leaned into the warmth of family life.

"Alright then, it's settled," declared Mark, his voice filled with a warmth that matched the sunset outside. "After dinner, we bring out the board games for some old-fashioned family fun."

Chelsea’s smile, wide and genuine, reflected her deep sense of gratitude for the love and support that filled her home.

As the sun completed its descent over Los Angeles, painting the sky in a spectacle of oranges and pinks, the Thompson household was filled with laughter and the sounds of friendly competition. While the world outside grew darker, the Thompsons were engrossed in the spirit of the game, cherishing each other's company.

During a pause in the games, while her brothers bantered over their next strategic moves, Chelsea found her thoughts drifting momentarily to the coming school day. Her English class, with its vibrant discussions and engaging topics, always managed to spark a sense of curiosity in her. She respected her teacher, Mrs. Carter, for her ability to make even the driest subjects come alive with her storytelling.

For now, though, her curiosity would wait. Eventually, the clatter of dice, the shuffle of cards, and her family's shared laughter subsided as the night wound down. Chelsea and her brothers, amid yawns and stretching, began the familiar ritual of tidying up. With the games neatly stacked on the shelf, they ascended the stairs, their footsteps a soft echo in the quiet home. After the nightly routine of brushing teeth, they each retreated to their own rooms. Sleep descended quickly and deeply, and before they knew it, a new day had come.

*****

"Good morning, everyone!" boomed Mrs. Carter, her voice a bit too loud given the circumstances, but filled with her characteristic zeal.

"Today, we embark on a unique journey—a project that will enhance your prowess with the pen and expand the frontiers of your world." Her eyes twinkled with excitement as she continued. "In this endeavor, you'll be exchanging letters, yes, physical letters, with students from across the country. This is an exercise about anticipation and forming a tangible connection that is only possible when you hold a letter in your hands—the kind that's traveled miles to reach you, carrying thoughts and stories."

She paused for dramatic effect. Chelsea was intrigued yet doubtful. She knew Mrs. Carter tended to ramp up assignments beyond her students' enthusiasm.

"We are starting a pen pal project," Mrs. Carter announced. "Each of you will be assigned a pen pal from a different part of the country.”

Chelsea rifled through the packet of materials for the week that had arrived days earlier, a collection of worksheets, reading assignments, and a thick, sealed envelope marked with the school's emblem. This was part of a new initiative, Mrs. Carter explained, a way to keep the learning experience hands on.

"Now, inside your packets," Mrs. Carter's voice broke through the crisp sound of tearing paper as Chelsea opened the special envelope, "you will find not just the usual assignments but also the name and a brief profile of your pen pal."

Teresa Moretti, the slip inside read. Teresa was only nine, a few years younger than Chelsea and a grade behind, but just as eager to exchange stories and to connect across the miles. There was no address, just an assurance that she would receive a letter from Teresa soon. The promise of a friendship, narratives woven between the lines of handwritten text, brought a glow to Chelsea's day.

Mrs. Carter's voice was steady, a lifeline in the sea of uncertainty. "Your journey with your pen pal will culminate in an essay this fall, once school resumes after the summer. In your essay, you will write about your experience, what you learned, and the friendships made.”

With a soft smile, Chelsea placed the pen pal profile on her desk, her thoughts already tumbling over what she might say, what questions she might ask. In a time when the world felt smaller, constrained to the confines of home, this was an opportunity to reach out, to learn, to grow — and she grasped it with both hands.