48 Hours

I've always been drawn to the forgotten corners-the chipped tea cups, creaky staircases, half-finished letters, and the feeling that something-or someone-is waiting just out of sight. All of my novels come to me in the stillness, when my life feels anything but quiet. For a long time, adulthood was a storm I didn't know how to name. I lost pieces of myself in the noise, in the surviving. But stories, somehow, kept their light on. This one, especially, reminded me that soft things can be strong. That healing doesn't always look like a triumph-it sometimes looks like a warm kitchen, a handwritten note, or a house that remembers you when you don't remember yourself. When I'm not writing, I'm dreaming up strange little worlds, whispering secrets to my cat, or making something beautiful out of the broken bits. This is one of many novels I intend on writing. It comes with every part of me I had to reclaim just to write it. There are more stories coming. And I'm not afraid of the quiet anymore. - Priscilla Ann Smith