Departure

We left before dawn, when the frost still held the grass in brittle lace. Mother did not come to the door. I told myself it was kindness—one less face to fold into memory wrong.

The road down to the harbor was empty except for a dog that trotted beside us for a mile, then sat and watched us go, as if we’d forgotten something it could not carry.

At the water’s edge, the boat rocked in a patient rhythm. The captain nodded once, the same nod the station master had given, and I wondered if everyone in this country learned the same gesture for I already know how this ends.

I looked back once. The hill house was a smudge. The lamp was out.

The letter was ash in my pocket—I had burned it the night before, watching the crescent seal curl black at the edges. Some messages are only useful when they stop being paper.

The sea opened. I did not.

End of sample.