Hazel, have you put the kettle on?
Hazel stood by the window, watching a sparrow hop across the sillsmall and grey, with a black spot on its throat. It pecked at something for a moment, froze, then pecked again. She watched for nearly three minutes, unable to look away.
Hazel!
Just a second, she replied distractedly.
The sparrow flew off.
She went to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle, took down a mughis mug, the massive one with The Boss on it, which their daughter had once brought home from London as a joke. The joke had long since faded, but the mug had stayed.
Youll be a while? Peter shuffled into the kitchen, wearing threadbare tracksuit bottoms and slippers, holding the newspaper. I ask for tea, and you disappear.
I was at the window.
At the window. He looked at her as though shed spoken a foreign language. Why?
There was a sparrow.
Peter lowered his paper.
Are you alright, Hazel?
Perfectly, she said, pouring boiling water into his mug.
He took it back into the living room and settled into his armchair, paper stretched wide. Hazel remained by the kettle, wanting tea for herself. For some reason, though, she didnt make one. She simply stood there, staring at the kettle.
They were both fifty-eight. Met at twenty-three at a works do, married at twenty-five, and for thirty-three years, Hazel had put the kettle on at his first request.
She hadnt noticed when this routine had begun. It probably hadnt begunit had always been there.
Her friend Judith had pointed it out three years earlier, over wine at Judiths kitchen tabledrinking from plastic cups because Judith had smashed all her glasses during the last move.
Hazel, do you listen to yourself? You say, he wants, he prefers, it suits him. What about you? What do you want?
I want things to be alright between us.
That isnt a want. Thats a function.
Hazel had bristled. Claimed Judith was just jealous and lonely. Judith hadnt taken offence; shed simply poured more wine.
Now, standing by the kettle, Hazel kept remembering that wordfunction. Like maths. X depends on Y. Hazel depends on Peter.
She poured herself a cuppa, sat at the table, and took out her phone. The last message from Judith was three weeks old: Hazel, you still alive? Hazel had replied with a smiley; Judith responded with a raised eyebrow emoji.
Hazel typed, Im alive. Not seen you in ages.
The reply came instantly, as though Judith had been waiting: Pop round Saturday. Ill bake a pie.
On Saturdays, Peter usually wanted a roast.
Hazel wrote, Ill come.
She put away her phone, finished her tea, got up, and began defrosting chicken for the Sunday soup.
Judith lived ten minutes away, in an old terraced house with creaky wooden banisters. Hazel had gone up those stairs since she was twenty-fiveknew every loose spindle. She arrived at half past two, clutching a jar of gooseberry jam.
Oh! Judith said, opening the door. Youve had your hair cut.
Three months ago.
No matter. Suits you.
They wandered into the kitchen; an apple pie cooling on a wire rack, the air thick with cinnamon and that homely comfort Judith always conjured, no matter the circumstance. Judith had been through two divorces, four moves, buried both parents within a year, and still, somehow, her house always smelled of something good.
Go on, Judith said, slicing the pie. Spill.
Whats there to tell?
Everything.
Hazel took a piece of piehot, with apples melting inside. She bit in, a tightness catching in her throat, not from the taste but something deeper.
He asked me yesterday where the remote was, she began. It was right on the arm of his chair. I went, picked it up, handed it over.
And?
And nothing. He switched channels. I went back to ironing in the kitchen.
Judith watched her.
Hazel.
I know what youre about to say.
No, you dont. I want to knowhow did it feel? For you?
Hazel considered. Odd she hadnt thought about that before. She just got up, fetched the remote, handed it over. Returned.
Nothing, she said at last. I felt nothing. Didnt even think anything. I just did it.
Thats the problem, Judith said softly. Not that you handed him the remote. But that it was nothing to you.
Silence filled the kitchen. Out Judiths window, an old pear tree swayed; a blue tit was bobbing on a branch in the pale light of Saturday.
Youve got blue tits, Hazel noted.
Every Saturday, Judith nodded. I call her Maisie.
You name the birds?
I name everything that matters to me.
Hazel looked at the blue tit. Then at Judith. Then back again.
Im fifty-eight, Jude.
So am I.
Its not the age for change.
Judith poured tea and slid Hazel a proper cup, white china with a blue pattern, no mottoes. Hazel cupped it in both hands.
You know what I reckon? Judith mused. Its exactly the agefor all the time before, youve thought youd get round to yourself. Now you know you wont.
Hazel walked home slowly. October lay soft across their town, leaves carpeting the pavements like a woven rug. She wondered when shed last walked anywhere simply for the sake of itwithout shopping bags, without worrying about getting dinner on before Peters arrival.
Peter worked at a car garage. Not the spanner work anymorehed been an administrator for years. Home by half six; straight in the armchair, telly on, waiting for dinner. It wasnt a demand, just the order of things.
As she entered, he looked up from the telly.
Whereve you been?
At Judiths.
What about the roast?
Hazel paused in the hallway.
I didnt make it. I was with my friend.
So what am I meant to eat?
She looked at himat the face shed known thirty-three years; the wrinkles at his eyes, deepening since forty. His hands, resting on the arm of his chair, as if presiding over an office.
Theres leftover cottage pie in the fridge, she said. And some bread.
She took off her shoes, got a book from the bedside table, and lay down to read.
He came in ten minutes later with a plate in his hand.
Its cold.
Warm it in the microwave.
He shot her a long look. She didnt glance up from the page.
He left. She heard the microwave door slam, the machine whirr, silence.
She read. The book was about a woman who opened a pottery studio at fiftyHazel had bought it six months ago, meaning to start it when she had the time.
Now, as she read, she wondered how that woman in the novel just knew what she wanted. Just knew, plain as day. I want to throw pots. Hazel didnt know what she wanted. She wasnt even sure she ever wanted anything, except things to be alright.
Her name was Hazel Margaret Bennett. Shed grown up in a small town in Derbyshire, come to Birmingham to study accounting, stayed on because she got married. She worked in accounts for a building firm for two decades, then the company folded. She spent a few years in a school, running a textiles club, until Peter said, No point trekking all over town for pennies, and she took a part-time job in a tiny office down the street. Now she was retireda year ago.
Shed thought shed be glad. Rest. Time for herself.
But it turned out retirement was just more hours to do the same thingscooking, cleaning, errands, laundry, kettles.
That Sunday morning, she woke at six, as always. Peter slept. She lay staring at the ceiling. The same ceiling as thirty years agoredecorated in 97, but the only thing that changed was a crack above the window, now longer.
She got up, got dressed, put on her coat and left.
The town was nearly empty at six. An old man swept leaves; a tabby cat prowled the fence, purposeful. Hazel ambled towards the park, only because her feet knew the route.
Park benches dripped from last nights rain. She wiped the backrest with her hand and sat.
She thought of Judith. You name what matters. Hazel had named nothingbecause nothing was just hers. There was the flat, but that was theirs. There was the tea set shed wanted to buy three years back, but Peter said, The old set isnt broken. There was a swimming pool membership she’d got herself for her birthdaygone thrice, then stopped, as it felt wrong to be out when Peter was in.
She thought that, bit by bit, shed let herself disappear: one slice to the Sunday roast, another to ironing shirts, a third to where have you been, a fourth to what am I meant to eat?
A woman with a small ginger dachshund stopped nearby; the dog eyed Hazel with professional interest.
She doesnt bite? Hazel asked.
Oh no, she loves everyone, the woman smiled. You out walking?
Yes, just fancied it.
Good for you. I come out most mornings. Used to walk with Robert, now Ive got the dog. Roberts been gone, oh, years Im still walking.
She said this flatly, without self-pity. Hazel watched herher calm, open face.
Dont you get lonely?
For Robert? The woman paused. Yes. But for myself, too. Those last three years caring for him, I quite lost myself. Then he died, and I thoughtwho am I now? Ate whatever, wandered about. Then I got Daisyshe jerked her head at the dachshundand started living again, in bits and bobs.
Daisy meanwhile sniffed Hazels boot and trotted off.
How old are you, if you dont mind?
Sixty-three. You?
Just curious.
The woman smiled and wandered after Daisy.
Back home, Hazel found Peter already up, scowling over his tea.
Whereve you been?
The park.
The park. He checked the clock. At eight in the morning?
Yes.
Whats there to do at eight?
Sit, she replied. Think.
He dropped his gaze. She realised he was waiting for breakfast.
She put on the kettle, fetched eggs, made him scrambled, sliced some bread, put it before him.
He ate in silence. Hazel sat opposite, sipping her tea.
Pete, she said.
Mhm?
Do you remember why we got married?
He looked up, a little surprised.
Whats brought that on?
No reason. Just, why?
Well we loved each other.
Loved each other, she echoed. And now?
He put down his fork.
Hazel, what is this?
Im asking.
Well, we live. Were a family.
A family, she repeated. And said nothing else.
He finished, left his plate, and went back to the living room. She stared at his half-eaten toast.
By Monday, shed phoned the pool and renewed her membershipdecided on Wednesdays and Fridays.
When Wednesday came, she packed her bag and told Peter, on her way out:
Im going for a swim. Dinners in the fridge. Heat it up.
He looked at her over his glasses.
The pool?
The Dolphin.
Thats miles away.
Twenty minutes on the bus.
Why?
She zipped her coat.
Because I want to swim.
He said nothing. She left.
The bus was almost emptyjust an older couple and a woman with a child. Hazel gazed through the window at autumnal Birmingham: golden plane trees, bustling cafes, passers-by hurrying along to their own plans.
And she realised she liked being on that bus.
The Dolphin pool was absent of dolphinsjust blue lanes and the sharp smell of chlorine. She changed, slipped into the water, and started swimming. Slowly, breaststroke, the way she knew. The water was cool, dense. Hazel swam, thinking about nothing at alljust gliding along.
When she finished, she felt something new. Not the usual tiredness from chores, but a good, proper tiredness.
On the way home she stopped for a coffee at a café, alone, at a tiny window table. The waitress brought a biscuit with her coffee. Hazel ate it and thoughtthis, perhaps, was what living meant. Not something grand. Just coffee. Just a biscuit. Just a window.
At home, Peter sat in his armchair, the telly on, a plate beside him.
Heated it up? she asked.
I did. Too much salt.
Hazel didnt answer. She washed, changed, and went to bed with her book.
A week later, she visited Judith againtold her about the park, the pool, the café.
Good, Judith said. More.
More what?
What do you want to try next?
Hazel thought.
I want to learn something. Drawing, maybe. Used to draw as a girl.
Go for it, then.
Where?
There are evening classes. Google it.
At my age Hazel began.
Stop, Judith cut in. I know that tone. Dont talk yourself out of it.
Hazel closed her mouth.
Alright, she agreed.
She found the studio by accidenta sign in the window: Watercolours for Adults. She went in, asked. Classes were Tuesdays and Thursdays, small groups, everyone different. The teacher, Mrs. Anna Simmons, was in her sixties, with cropped silver hair and earrings shaped like teardrops.
Got any experience? she asked.
Forty years ago, as a child.
Brilliant. Youre unspoilt by bad habits. Join us next Tuesday.
Hazel did. There were seven students: four women her age, a younger woman, a man about fifty, and a student.
Mrs. Simmons placed an apple before them. Look, she said.
They all stared at the apple for five minutes. Just looked. Then they painted. Hazels ended up more potato than apple, but she didnt care. She felt good.
Youve got a sense of depth, Mrs. Simmons commented, inspecting Hazels effort. Thats what matters. The rest will come.
Hazel took her potato-apple home, clutching the page proudly.
At home, Peter was watching the news.
Whereve you been? he asked.
Painting.
He half-turned. What?
Watercolours. An apple.
He glanced at her page.
Thats an apple?
The start of one, she replied, and went to make tea.
That evening, she rang her daughter. Katie lived in London, worked in pharmaceuticals, married, two children. She normally rang on Sundays.
Mum, Katie said, you called on a Wednesday!
Just wanted to sayIve joined an art class. Im painting.
Pause.
Painting?
Watercolours. Twice a week.
Thats brilliant, Katie said, with a note Hazel couldnt quite placenot surprise, not joy. Something in between. Does Dad know?
Hes seen the apple, vaguely.
Katie laughed. Classic Dad. Are you alright, Mum?
Better than before, Hazel replied.
Good. Gotta run, the kids are going madcall Sunday?
Call Sunday.
Hazel put her phone down. Sat a while. Then pinned the apple to the fridge, beside a Brighton fridge magnet.
Peter came in, fetching water, saw the picture, shook his head but said nothing.
November came in dreary and damp. Hazel swam, painted, dropped by Judiths. Otherwise, she cooked, cleaned, readmore than she had in two decades.
One evening at art, a woman from the group, Nina, sat by her. Sixty-one, ex-geography teacher, now retired. Hair dyed too-bright ginger, a bit wonky, but it worked.
How longve you been painting? Nina asked.
Third month.
Showing real progress. Ive been here six; my lines are all wobbly.
Mrs. Simmons says lines arent everything.
Oh shes a philosopher, Nina chuckled. She once told me it wasnt about drawing but about really seeing.
Hazel pondered.
Maybe thats true for life as well.
It is, Nina agreed. You married?
Thirty-three years.
Wow. Ive been divorced twice. Im alone now, and you know what? Im happy.
Never bored?
Sometimes. But it beats how things were. The first drank. The second didnt, but only spoke to me when needed. Like I was a household appliance. Press a button, get a result.
Hazel gave a tiny, knowing smile.
Like a kettle.
Exactly. Your tree there, thoughits alive. Look, the trunk breathes.
Hazel studied her painting. The tree did seem to, somehow.
In November, things began to shift between her and Peter. Slowly.
He got used to her being out three times a week. Stopped asking, Whereve you been? Reheated his own dinners. Once, she came in to find hed boiled potatoes by himself. Just because.
You boiled potatoes, she remarked.
He shrugged. Got hungry.
Ok, she said.
Strange, but not bad. Just new.
One evening, they sat together in the kitchen. Both with tea. The telly was out, so the silence somehow hung thicker.
Hazel, he said suddenly.
Yes?
Youve changed.
She met his gaze.
For better or worse?
He thought about it.
I dont know. Just different.
Yes, she said.
Im not used to it.
Neither am I, she replied. But Ill get there.
He hesitated. Then:
Show us your paintings?
She was taken aback. Retrieved her folder. He flicked through, silent, pausing at a few.
Whats this?
A jug. Were learning about light and shade.
And this?
My hand. Drew my own.
He studied the hand for ages.
Looks like one.
Thank you.
Youre good, he said, simply, no fuss.
She warmedsomething calm, not relief, not pride at his approval. Something else.
I know, she replied.
December turned frosty. Hazel bought herself new lined bootsnavy, fur inside. Peter frowned at the price on the receipt, but she said, Theyll keep me warm, and dropped the subject.
Art class focused on winter landscapes. Mrs. Simmons brought old black-and-white photos: frozen rivers, snow-dusted villages, stark woods.
Winter isnt an absence of colour, she said. Winter is every colour, just soft.
Hazel peered at the black-and-white and found blue in the shadows, hints of pink at the horizon, yellow in birch bark.
Nina was glum about her shades.
All my paintings are grey, she whispered.
Look for the undertones, Hazel whispered back. Theyre not just grey.
Nina peered, then touched blue paint to her trees shadow.
Oh! said Nina.
Thats it, grinned Hazel.
They shared coffee at the corner café after class. Nina spoke of her daughter in Manchester, who wanted her to move down.
You going? Hazel asked.
Not sure. Everything would be strange there. But here, Ive got you, art, and my cat. Wilbur.
Hazel smiled. Wilbur.
Oh yes. A portly ginger, very dignified. We get on.
Judith names birds, Hazel said. Calls a blue tit Maisie.
Quite right, Nina approved. Name what matters.
Hazel watched a woman in a red coat hurrying past outside, hair flying.
Nina, do you regret getting divorced?
Nina stirred her coffee.
Regret lost years, sometimes. But not the decision itself. You know, one morning I woke and couldnt remember when I last thought about anything just for me. Not his dinner, not his moodsme. And I realised Id vanished. So I tried to talk. He just said, Youre making it up. Not, I hear you, just: Youre imagining things. So I left.
They sat. Nina then shook herself.
That was ages ago. Now I have Wilbur. And watercolours. Its alright.
They paid, left. Outside, the first uncertain snow drifted in. Hazel tipped her chin to the sky and felt a snowflake melt on her cheek.
At home Peter was on the phone, chuckling. As she entered, he waved, didnt hang up. She slipped into the kitchen and put on the kettle. As it heated, she stood at the window.
Dark, snow flurries caught in the lamplightit was beautiful.
She snapped a photo and set it as her phone wallpaper, replacing the old family picture from Katies wedding. The snow with the lamp was hers.
In January, she painted a picture that truly workedthe street outside her window at dusk, lamplight glowing on the fresh snow. Mrs. Simmons inspected it for a long time.
There it is, she said at last. Your voice.
What do you mean?
In art, there is a voice. Like a melody. You can learn technique, but a voice you either have or you dont. You have one.
Hazel gazed at her painting.
I just painted what I saw.
Just so. What you seewhat matters to you.
That too went on the fridge, next to the apple.
Once, Peter stood before the fridge studying both paintings. She walked in.
What? she asked.
Looking, he said. Theyre good.
Thank you.
You always know how to do that?
Not sure, she admitted. Probably. I just never did.
He nodded, took out some cheese.
Peter, she spoke.
Mhm?
I want to go to the seaside in summer. On my own. Or with Nina from art. Just a week, nothing fancy.
He turned, cheese in hand.
On your own?
Or with Nina. I just want some time there.
He paused. She waited.
You got money?
I get a pension. Ive saved up.
Well he said awkwardly. If you want.
It wasnt, Of course, go, love. Just well, if you want, like he didnt quite know what to make of a wife with wants of her own. Stillsomething.
She messaged Nina: Do you fancy the seaside in July? Im thinking Cornwall.
Nina replied in five minutes: Ill ship Wilbur off to my daughter and come, name the date!
February dragged. Hazel swam, painted, visited Judith. She read, took Nina to the theatre to see a Chekhov play. Peter wouldnt gonot my thingso she bought herself a single ticket and called Nina.
The play was heavy but good. Hazel, in the dark, realised she hadnt been to the theatre in fifteen years.
They went for tea after.
What did you make of it? Nina asked.
I kept thinking about Irina.
The one who says, To London, to London?
Exactly. Always waiting for life to begin, while it passed right by.
Chekhovs cruel, Nina smiled wryly. Shows how people waste timein such gentle detail, it hurts.
Exactly.
Have you decided what you want?
Hazel met her gaze.
What do you mean?
I see something going round your mindmonths now.
Hazel stirred her tea.
I dont know. Im just living, a bit. For myself.
Thats more than most.
Peter doesnt get it.
Have you told him?
Tried. He says, Youve changed. I say, Yes. He says, Not used to it. I say, You will be.
And?
He says nothing. But boils his own potatoes now.
Nina laughed.
Thats a start.
Nina, are you happy?
Nina considered.
If by happy you mean nothing hurts, then nomy knee aches, my daughters a handful, moneys tight. But if its being yourself, not hiding or just enduring, then yes. I think so.
Good answer.
Youre thinking of leaving Peter, arent you?
Hazel looked out the windowFebruarys dark street, lamp-lit.
I dont know. Truthfully. Thirty-three yearsits not nothing. Hes not a bad man. But he doesnt see me. Im not sure you can learn to see another person if you never have.
Sometimes you can, said Nina. Sometimes not.
Yes. Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
In March, for Mothers Day, Katie visited with the grandkids. Two days of chaos, laughter, noise. Peter lit upplayed, laughed, animated. Watching him, Hazel thoughthe is alive. Just, not often.
The first night, after the children fell asleep, the four of themHazel, Peter, Katie, and Katies husband Andrewsat drinking tea.
How are you, Mum? Katie asked. You look wonderful these days.
Its painting, said Hazel.
Show us!
She brought the folder. Katie leafed through, pausing, taking in each picture.
Mumthese are genuinely beautiful.
Mrs. Simmons says I have a voice.
A voice? Andrew asked.
In art. A way of seeing, of putting yourself on the page.
Well I never, Andrew said. Didnt know it was so personal.
Everything is, said Hazel. If you do it honestly.
Peter was silent. He looked into his mug, then up.
Shes always known how, he said. With no particular emotionjust a fact.
You did? Katie prompted.
Painted before you were born.
Hazel stared. He knewall these years, he knew she could paint, but never once said, Why dont you?
She kept quiet, put the folder away.
After Katie left, silence fell once more. Peter returned to his usual routines.
One afternoon in mid-March, returning from class, Hazel wandered into the kitchen. On the table, a notea rarity from Peter, who usually just called from the next room.
Gone to Daves for the weekend. Back Monday. Made soup, its in the fridge.
She reread the note, twice. Hed made soup, himself.
She checked the fridgea pot of soup, pale, a bit oversalted by the look. But soup, made by him.
She ladled herself a bowl, ate, and thoughtsomething in that soup mattered. Not the taste. Something else.
She spent those two days aloneswam, painted, cooked what she fancied. Read in bed, never turned the light off before midnight. Drank coffee, standing by the window, for as long as she pleased.
By the time Peter returned, she realised shed rather liked itbeing alone.
It was an uncomfortable truth.
In April, Mrs. Simmons asked Hazel to submit work for a small exhibitiona local community centre, twenty student artworks across four walls.
Me? Hazel asked in disbelief.
You. Your pictures are alive. Thats all that counts.
Hazel thought it overaccepted after three days.
She chose five pieces: the lamp-lit street, the hand, the living tree, the backlit jug, a recent sketch of coffee and book with snow beyond the window.
The exhibition opened on a Friday evening. The art group was there. Judith, Nina with Wilbur in a carrier (cat wasnt allowed in, of course), Katie sent a voice message, Im so proud! Peter turned up, too.
Hazel spotted him near the entrancecoat and all, awkward but determined. He drifted to her paintings, especially the lamp-lit street.
Thats our window, he said at last.
Yes.
Never thought you could paint that view.
I did.
He faced her.
Hazel.
Yes?
I I know I missed something. Not sure what, but it mattered.
She looked at him.
I know, she said quietly.
Im not good with words.
I know.
They stood side by side, gazing at her painting, silent, soft, no grand words.
Then Judith bustled in and dragged Hazel off to meet the centre director, who wanted to discuss another exhibition.
In May, she and Nina booked their Cornwall tripearly July, eight days, tiny hotel with two rooms.
Hazel told Peter on Monday, over tea.
Booked tickets. Going with Nina in Julyeight days.
He peered over his glasses.
Eight?
Yes.
Long time.
It isnt.
He paused.
Alright. Ill go stay with Dave then.
Fine.
Careful near the sea and all.
I can swimbeen going for six months.
True.
She headed to the kitchen, then returned.
Pete?
Yeah?
I want to ask you something. For real.
He put down his newspaper.
Go on.
Do you see me? I mean, really see me? Not dinner, or tea, or the roast. Me.
He stayed silent a long while. She waited.
I dont understand the question, he said at last.
I know, Hazel replied. Thats just it.
She went to the kitchen, brewed herself a cup. Her own blue-patterned mug, a February find at a little shop near the studio. A proper mug.
July arrived, baking hot. On the day she left, she packed a small suitcase, her sketchbook, watercolours, new brushes.
Peter walked her down to the taxi.
Call me, he said.
I will.
Sunhat?
Got it.
Right.
The taxi pulled in. Hazel placed her bag inside, turned back.
He stood there, old tracksuit bottoms and all, a hint lostuntidy, not used to her going away alone.
Peter, she said.
Yes?
If anything is going to change between us, we need to talk for real. Im willing to. But I cant do both our talking for us.
He looked at her.
You will come back? he asked.
Im off for eight days at the seaside, Peter, she said.
The cabbie beeped gently. She climbed in.
Peter remained by the steps.
The car pulled away. Hazel watched as he shrank in the mirror, then vanished as they turned.
She leaned back.
Birmingham flew bystreets, shops, familiar corners, the immense summer sun glaring through the glass.
She pulled out her mobile. Texted Nina: En route. Where are you?
Nina: At the station! Wilburs at my daughters, cried my eyes out. Cant wait to see you!
Hazel smiled, then opened a new tab: online watercolour courses. Just to look. Just curious.
Closed it. Opened it again.
In four hours, the train would reach the coast. Shed sit by the window, watching as the Midlands melted into hills, hills into blue horizon.
Shed pull out her sketchbook, start drawing what she saw.
Not what was expected. Not what matched the rules. What she saw.
Nina met her at the platform, small, fiery-curled, backpack slung.
Well? said Nina. Shall we?
Lets, said Hazel.
And they went.
Funny thing: Hazel didnt know if shed return to Peter as one comes back to something finished and safe. She only knew she was returning to herselfand wouldnt let go.
The platform teemed with sunshine and noise. Somewhere a child was crying. Somewhere ice cream was being sold. It smelled of trains, and summer, and the future.
Hazel feltbeneath her feetthe ground was solid.
Really solid. And her own.
The train moved offsmoothly, as it does for a real journey and not just a change of place.
The platform rolled by, then roofs, then town, then the pale yellow field.
Nina dozed, head against the glass.
Hazel flipped open her sketchbook, picked up her pencil.
Beyond the window, the fields ran onendless, sunbleached.
She began to sketch.
The horizon: straight and strong.
Sky above, a touch darker at the edge.
A road snaking off into the distance.
No figures in the drawing.
Only the space.
Whatre you drawing? Nina mumbled, eyes still closed.
The horizon.
Is it lovely?
Hazel looked down.
Not sure yet, she said. But I think it will be.
Nina murmured, drifting off again.
The train sped on.
Hazel drew.
