I thought it was a load of waffle. Waaaaay too long. Was there a minimum word count?
Two people stepped out – the same young man, along with a petite woman in a navy cardigan and blue dress, her lipstick perfectly applied and blond hair swept up. Her heels sank slightly in the gravel as they approached.
The next night, I was jolted awake by the growl of an engine. Peering out, I saw Cassie and Francis driving across the field, straight towards the section where we had made our repairs the night before
Amanda returned home one afternoon, her step heavy. Francis was putting up a fence. Not a hedge, not post and wire, not the kind of weathered timber that belongs in the landscape.
The silence that followed wasn’t relief; it was heavier than the noise itself.
They reloaded from their pockets with practised, twitchy movements, like they’d done it a hundred times in private and were ready now for the performance.
I felt my throat close. Two years of evidence, thousands of messages, all the fear, the threats, the nights we slept with one eye open – gone in a blink. No jury. No testimony. No voice.
I laughed, a sharp, hollow sound. “You’ve no idea what they’re capable of.”
“Maybe now,” she said, her voice soft but sure, “the land can heal.”