The Screams of November Third

Each November, Bruce Castle breathes a little heavier, as if remembering the fall that broke more than bones. Amid the yellowing leaves of Tottenham, where the air hangs thick with secrets and the museum locks its doors against more than just time, one voice always finds its way through—sorrowful, spectral, and sharp as a frost-kissed wind. On November Third, her scream rings out. But this year, Amara Okoye is listening.