Walter Sommer
The wind was still warm with the passing storm as Clara — or so she called herself today — walked along the Northumberland coast. The sky had begun to clear, and a rainbow arched across the horizon, cutting through the last gray clouds. She smiled. The rainbow was like a secret, just for her, and perhaps that’s what this life had become: a series of beautiful, hidden things.
In the world she left behind, she had a different name. Anne Elizabeth Baker. The sister of George Barker, a writer of topography and history. For over sixty years, Anne was his constant companion.
But in this alternate history, Anne was destined for marriage to a gentleman of good breeding and better fortune. She could see her mother’s face now, stern and drawn as if her entire life had been spent tightening a corset that could never quite be cinched enough.
“Anne,” her mother would say in that clipped tone that held no room for deviation, “you mustn’t look like that. You mustn’t think like that.”
As if her very thoughts were a betrayal.
Clara—no, Anne—laughed quietly to herself. She had once believed them, those words. Believed that her life would only have value if lived through the expectations of others. But that belief had shattered the moment she sold her first story under the name of H.F. Everly. A small piece, barely more than a sketch, but one that sent ripples through London’s literary circles. And yet, no one knew it was her.
That was her power. The woman no one could see, the voice no one could trace. She lived between two worlds now—the obedient daughter who sat with needle and thread in the parlor and the radical writer penning words to free other women like her from the chains of their own lives.
On the beach, her skirts, heavy from the damp air, dragged against the sand, but she barely noticed. Something was intoxicating about this walk, alone, with no one watching, no one expecting her to be anything but what she was in that moment. She could feel the ocean’s pulse through the soles of her boots, the rhythm of her own steps matching its heartbeat. For the first time in years, she was fully herself.
No father dictating her movements. No mother arranging her future. Just Clara. Or Anne. Or H.F. Everly. Or perhaps all of them.
The rainbow stretched further now, a vivid arc, promising the world but asking nothing in return. She paused, her hands brushing the edge of her skirts as she watched it, knowing the storm was behind her, both on the horizon and in her life. Her family would not understand the choices she had made. They would think her mad, perhaps even ruined.
But the truth was simple: she had never felt more whole.
Turning, she looked back at the storm clouds as they receded into the distance. They would always be there, she knew. The expectations, the weight of tradition and the role she was born into—those things were part of her past, as inevitable as the rain.
But rain was not the end.
Anne smiled at the rainbow once more. It was, after all, only the beginning.
This is my tribute to self-made people.
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Symphony: Northumberland Bows of Promise
Composed by Walter Sommer and Tom Libertiny
Performed by Walter Sommer and his Orchestra
Produced, mixed, and mastered by Tom Libertiny
Cinematic Symphony, Northumberland Bows of Promise