The Glass Painting

The glass painting sat in the attic, where no one was allowed. Amara had stories, though. Many, many stories. Told by several tongues. Old and young. And she was sick of it. She was sick of the stories, and sick of the stench of mystery leaking from the floors, the walls, and the ceilings. The attic seemed to be calling her. Asking her to visit. Come, it said. She had resisted firmly. No, she would tell herself. It was dangerous. Grandma had said so. Her mama had said so. But on the cusp of her twenty-first birthday, she is compelled to explore, and what she finds, leaves her altered.