Ms Briggs

Briggs is the kind of woman time forgot — or maybe she forgot time first. With a scowl that could sour milk and a wardrobe consisting entirely of moth-bitten cardigans, she drifts through life like a storm cloud that’s been given a zip code. The neighbors whisper her name like a local legend, equal parts fear and fascination, as if saying it too loud might summon her to the porch. Once upon a time, Briggs might’ve had friends — or at least acquaintances who didn’t cross the street to avoid her. But years of suspicion, sarcasm, and unsolicited opinions have built an invisible wall taller than any fence. She insists she doesn’t need anyone, and maybe she believes it. After all, companionship requires patience, and Briggs has only ever been patient with her tea kettle. Behind the gruff exterior, though, there’s a spark — a strange sort of wisdom born from watching the world disappoint her one too many times. She sees through people’s performances with x-ray clarity, calling out hypocrisy before anyone else dares to. Some call it bitterness. She calls it experience. Either way, it keeps her sharp. By the end of her story, you’re not sure whether to pity her, laugh at her, or salute her for refusing to soften with age. Briggs is more than an “old hag” — she’s the ghost of every person who’s loved too little, trusted too late, and learned to live just fine without applause.