Jillian Hart

The tiny railroad town of Angel Falls was a symphony of noise. Because she was blind, Noelle Kramer had gotten the knack of separating one sound from another. There was the Chink of horseshoes on the hard-packed snow and ice as teamsters and riders hurried on their way. The merry bell in the church steeple clanged a melody, marking the late-aftemoon hour. The business-like clip-clip of ladies’ shoes on the swept-clean boardwalk was like a metronome tapping the meter. The low-throated rumble of the train, two blocks over, added a steady bass percussion as it idled on steel tracks.It all painted a picture, of sorts, but there was so much missing. She could not see the colorful window displays of the shops. Were they bright with spring colors yet ? While she could not know this, not without asking her dear aunt, who was busy fussing with their horse’s tether rope, she tried to picture what she could. She hadn’t been blind so long that she couldn’t remember the look of things. She only had to pull it up in her mind, the main street with its cheerful window displays, awnings and continuous boardwalks.