Arrival

The train came in late, dragging a ribbon of smoke that smelled like wet iron and burnt sugar. I stepped onto the platform with one bag and the letter folded into my coat pocket, its edges softened from too many readings.

The station master squinted at my ticket as if it might dissolve. “You’re the one from the coast,” he said, not quite a question.

“I suppose I am now.”

He laughed without humor and pointed toward the hill road. “They’ll be waiting. Don’t keep them.”

Who they were, he did not say. I walked anyway, because the alternative was standing still until the platform grew roots through my boots.

By the time the town came into view—low roofs, a church steeple like a needle—my palms were raw from gripping the bag strap. Someone had lit a lamp in the highest window. It swung, a small pendulum, as if the house itself were breathing.