I shouldn't commit to anything else right now, I know I REALLY should not, but a promise, even- or maybe especially- one made to a ghost, can't be taken lightly.
;)

Some time ago, quite by accident, I found the burned out remains of Old Sheldon Church, and there the grave of Sarah Chisolm, by taking a wrong a turn through the middle of nowhere South Carolina, near but not even in a 4.5 mile wide hamlet called Yamassee, home to one railway stop and one gas station-come-grocer- the kind of place that sells more pig parts than kinds of chips.

As of yet, the story doesn't have a title- so it's only called "Opal", the character through which we see most of the story. Here's your first bite-

"Opal liked the names of places that sounded like songs, the names of brown and black people’s places, like Yemassee and Senegal. The Indians were Pedee, Chickasaw, Keyauwee. The French and Spanish had come long ago, but the names all sounded curt and English now- Port Royal, Hilton Head, Beaufort. Pronounced Bo’fur. The white names had no music to them."