A fine gossamer ache stretched across the divide, fine yet with a purity of strength.
“But it’s not forever,” she breathed haltingly, a more complex thought jostling, “She’s not going to the dying place. Is she?” Her round brown eyes as dark as a newly turned sod; dark, yet sparkling with a vivid intelligence.
“She’s going to Benalla, lovey. Where she lives.” came the reply, trying not to be gruff, reaching deep for the tenderness of the growing seed, for the truthfulness of the straight furrow, a strange land.
Imperceptibly, she leant back into his shoulder, as the guard’s arm waved along the platform, the air filling with the groaning of the carriage and the grating of wheel on rail. The ghostly figure within the cabin raised a tentative hand, as she was eased along the platform and out of sight.
The girl, shoulders slumped, entered a patch of silence.