The Touch,
Sara spent months asking her mother to allow her departure - after she barely passed her O-level
exams, she explained over the kitchen table one night that she required a new beginning, a new
city, a location where nobody knew her name or history. Her mother, to Sara's surprise, offered
no resistance. She appeared exhausted and sorrowful and spoke the words: “If this is what you
need, baby, then go”. One week afterward, Sara boarded a bus with a single suitcase plus a heart
that pounded without pause.
The bus reached Windham at last. Sara stepped onto the pavement and drew in the crispest,
coldest air she had ever inhaled. The Green Mountains towered behind the town like a
stone-and-snow barrier, their summits white beneath the late-day sun. She was wearing a warm
winter coat, scarf, and boots, her hair slightly moving in the cold air. For the first time in multiple
years, the tight pain in her chest loosened. The town seemed within reach.
Her phone vibrated - a message from Mom appeared.
"When do you expect to be unpacked? Phone me the moment you have time. I fight against
worry, but you know me. Stay safe, dear."
Sara smiled without planning to and answered, "I arrived just now. I am fine. Love you," She slid
the phone into her bag and walked on.
The lanes were narrow, plus welcoming - old brick buildings stood on each side - they looked
permanent. She passed a small bookstore whose sign was painted by hand, a café that gave off
scents of cinnamon and warm bread, and a square of grass where owners walked dogs that looked
more content than many people. Every detail felt small enough to grasp but wide enough for her
to vanish inside. It matched what she had wished for.
Her mother had sent money by bank transfer so she could establish herself. The flat she had
located on the internet looked better than the photographs. It was a minute - a single chamber with
a mini kitchen, but also a window aimed straight at the peaks. Warmth struck her the instant she
entered. Sunlight flooded the boards. She set the suitcase down, raised the sash, and allowed the
chill mountain draught surged through the room. For a full minute, she stayed motionless,
drawing the air deep into her lungs.
She told herself, "Home." The place had a real chance of becoming her home.
She spent the rest of the evening unpacking - she draped her garments over the wobbly rail in the
corner. She spread the used quilt she had carried from her old life over the slim mattress. After
the sun dropped behind the ridge, she rested her forearms on the sill and watched the sky fade to
pale rose and lavender. A weight inside her moved. The break was not mended, the wound not
closed, but the load felt less heavy.
She woke before dawn, brewed coffee in the little pot plus dressed in denim and wool. Her first
goal was the bookshop. Second came a fresh cup. Third came a slow circuit of the park where
the dogs from yesterday sprinted after tennis balls as though paid to do so. By mid-afternoon, she
had climbed one of the lower trails. Her shoes cracked through dry pine needles, and the wind
pulled strands of hair across her face.
Each sight struck her as brand new. Each future path seemed open. She lacked a map for the next
sunrise, but fear no longer sat in her chest.
