— Miss Hannah, the girl must continue her studies. Such bright minds are rare. She has a special gift for languages and literature. You should see her writings!

**Diary Entry, 12th March 1953**

The schoolmistress, Mrs. Whitaker, said to me just yesterday, “Hannah, your girl must continue her studies. Minds like hers dont come along often. She has a gift for languages, for literatureyou should see her essays!”

My daughter was three when I found her under the bridge, caked in mud. I raised her as my own, though the villagers whispered behind my back. Now shes a teacher in the city, while I still live in my cottage, turning memories over like precious beads.

The floor creaks underfootI keep meaning to fix it, but never get round to it. I sit at the table and pull out my old diary. The pages have yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still holds my thoughts. Outside, the wind howls, and the birch tree taps its branch against the window, as if asking to come in.

“Whats all this fuss about?” I say to it. “Spring will come soon enough.”

Its silly, talking to a tree, but when you live alone, everything feels alive. After the war, I was left a widowmy Stephen was killed. His last letter, yellowed and worn at the folds, stays tucked in my drawer. Ive read it a hundred times. He wrote that hed be home soon, that he loved me, that wed be happy. A week later, I got the news.

God never gave me children, perhaps for the bestin those years, there was barely enough to feed ourselves. The farm manager, Mr. Thompson, would console me:

“Dont fret, Hannah. Youre young yet; youll marry again.”

“I wont,” Id say firmly. “I loved once. Thats enough.”

I worked dawn till dusk on the farm. Old Mr. Harris, the foreman, would shout,

“Hannah, its late! Time you went home!”

“Theres time enough,” Id reply. “So long as my hands work, my soul wont grow old.”

I kept a small homesteada goat named Betsy, as stubborn as I was, and five hens who woke me better than any rooster. My neighbour, Clara, often teased,

“Are you sure youre not part turkey? Your hens crow before anyone elses!”

I grew potatoes, carrots, and beets. Come autumn, Id pickle cucumbers, tomatoes, and mushrooms. In winter, opening a jar was like bringing summer back indoors.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. March had been wet and miserable. A drizzle turned to sleet by evening. Id gone to gather kindlingthe stove needed feeding. Fallen branches littered the woods after the winter storms. As I walked home past the old bridge, I heard crying. At first, I thought it was the wind. But noa childs sob, clear as day.

I climbed down and there she wasa little girl, filthy and shivering, her dress soaked and torn. When she saw me, she went quiet, trembling like an aspen leaf.

“Who do you belong to, love?” I asked softly, so as not to frighten her more.

She didnt speak, just blinked those big eyes. Her lips were blue with cold, her hands red and swollen.

“Frozen through,” I muttered. “Come on, lets get you home.”

I carried herlight as a featherwrapped in my shawl, pressed to my chest. All the while, I wondered: what kind of mother leaves her child under a bridge?

I left the firewood behind. The whole way home, she clung to my neck, her icy fingers tight.

The neighbours came runningnews travels fast in a village. Clara was first.

“Good Lord, Hannah, whered you find her?”

“Under the bridge,” I said. “Abandoned, seems.”

“Oh, what a shame” Clara wrung her hands. “What will you do with her?”

“Do? Im keeping her.”

“Have you lost your senses?” Old Mrs. Wilkins hobbled over. “How will you feed her?”

“Ill manage,” I snapped.

I stoked the fire first, heated water. She was covered in bruises, ribs showing. I bathed her, dressed her in an old jumperthere were no childrens clothes in the house.

“Hungry?” I asked.

She nodded shyly.

I gave her yesterdays soup and bread. She ate hungrily but neatlyno street child, this one.

“Whats your name?”

Silence. Whether she was too scared or couldnt speak, I couldnt tell.

I put her to sleep in my bed; I took the bench. That night, I woke often to check on her. She slept curled tight, whimpering in her dreams.

At dawn, I went to the village council. The chairman, Mr. Reynolds, shrugged.

“No missing child reported. Maybe someone from the city left her.”

“What now?”

“The law says the orphanage. Ill telephone the county today.”

My heart clenched.

“Wait, Mr. Reynolds. Give me timeher parents might come forward. Till then, she stays with me.”

“Hannah, think this through”

“Its decided.”

I named her Mary, after my mother. No one ever came for her. And thank GodId grown to love her as my own.

At first, she barely spoke, just watched everything with wide eyes. At night, shed wake screaming. Id hold her close, stroke her hair.

“Hush now, love. Its all right.”

From old fabric, I sewed her dressesdyed blue, green, red. Clara gasped when she saw.

“Hannah, I never knew you could sew! I thought you only knew a shovel.”

“Life teaches you,” I said, glowing at the praise.

But not everyone was kind. Mrs. Wilkins would cross herself at the sight of us.

“Bad luck, taking in a stray. The mother was likely wickedblood tells.”

“Enough, Martha!” I cut in. “Judge not, lest ye be judged. Shes mine now.”

Even Mr. Thompson frowned.

“An orphanage would feed her, clothe her properly.”

“And whod love her?” I asked. “Theyve enough orphans already.”

He relented, sending milk or grain when he could.

Mary slowly thawed. Words came, then sentences. I remember her first laughId fallen off a chair hanging curtains. Sat there groaning, and she laughed like bells. The pain vanished.

She tried to help in the garden, toddling with a tiny spade. Mostly, she trampled the seedlings. But I didnt scoldjust glad to see her alive.

Then fever struck. She burned, delirious. I ran to the village medic, Mr. Carter.

“For pitys sake, help!”

He shook his head. “What medicines, Hannah? Ive three aspirin for the whole village. Maybe next week”

“Next week?” I cried. “She might not last the night!”

I walked nine miles through mud to the town clinic. My shoes split, my feet bled. The young doctor, Dr. Whitcombe, took one look at mefilthy, drenchedand said,

“Wait here.”

He brought medicine, explained the dose.

“No charge. Just get her well.”

For three days, I barely slept. Whispered prayers, changed compresses. On the fourth day, the fever broke. She opened her eyes and whispered,

“Mum, Im thirsty.”

Mum. First time shed called me that. I weptfrom joy, exhaustion, everything. She wiped my tears with her little hand.

“Mum, why are you crying? Does it hurt?”

“No, love,” I said. “These are happy tears.”

After that, she bloomedsweet, chatty. School came next. Her teacher, Miss Whitaker, raved,

“Such a bright girl! She grasps everything!”

The village grew used to her. Even Mrs. Wilkins softened, baking us pies after Mary helped her light the stove in a bitter winter.

Years passed. At nine, she asked about the bridge. Darning socks, I froze when she said,

“Mum, remember when you found me?”

“I do, darling.”

“I remember a bit too. It was cold. A lady was crying, then left.”

My knitting needles clattered.

“I dont remember her face. Just a blue shawl. She kept saying, Forgive me”

“Mary”

“Dont worry, Mum. I dont mind. Im glad you found me.”

I held her tight, throat aching. Who was that woman? Starving? Beaten? Not for me to judge.

That night, I lay awake. Fate had led me to her.

She excelled in school. Miss Whitaker urged,

“She must go further, Hannah. Such a gift!”

“But the money”

“Ill tutor her. Free. A sin to waste such talent.”

Evenings, they pored over booksDickens, Austen. I