{ Classic Starters } 

It was not entirely uncommon for her to get lost in her writing to the point she lost track of the conversations around her. Mister McGraw and Mister Hamilton were so often engaged in the most delightful philosophical debates that she had learned to write to the sound of their voices without being drawn into conversation. 

Like a comfortable and reassuring sound, as warm as rain upon the window as the fire crackled in the grate, their words could circle round her as she penned down her demons and let angels take flight where the need seemed at its most dire. Every now and then though, they would say something silly – or pose a question that was phrased in such a way she knew herself to be included in the inquiry. 

Mister McGraw’s voice had pitched differently, causing her to tune in automatically – unconsciously recognizing he meant for her to pay attention – though the question itself didn’t warrant much need to stir. Mister Hamilton might have been about to say something – as she didn’t look up from her work, Abigail had no notion of it.

“Inside everyone, of course,” There was no doubt or concern in her answer, offered as it was with all the simplicity of a known fact. “That is where it’s born, after all. Inside the hearts of everyone, whether they can read or not – it’s bigger than literature Mister McGraw – hope isn’t something that belongs only to the educated.”