The Final Departure

The chill bit into my skin as I pressed my forehead against the cold glass of the train window, watching my breath fog the pane, turning the dark fields beyond into ghostly shadows. Grey trees, drooping hedges, and skeletal farmhouses blurred past as the train rattled with a metallic shriek. All of it rushed by, faster and faster, as if the train itself was trying to outrun the memories of the war-torn city.

Not for the first time, my hand found its way to the flimsy scrap of paper hanging from my neck. Abigail Gray. Age 9. London. That was all I was now. A name and an age, hurriedly scrawled in black ink. The memory of Mother’s hands trembling as she had fastened the tag to me hadn’t left me all morning, and I doubted that it ever would. Her gloves had been thin — too thin for the cold — and her eyes, dark beneath the brim of her hat, had shone with unshed tears.

“You must be brave,” she’d said, steadily, whilst her shaky hands on my shoulders told a different story.

“I don’t want to go,” I’d whispered. “I can stay with you. I don’t care about the bombs.”

She’s smiled at that, so faint that I could have imagined it. Perhaps I did. "You’ll be safer in the country."

"But will you come for me?"

Her hesitation had been so brief that it would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not by me. I knew her too well.

"Of course," she’d said.

A lie. I saw it in her eyes. I knew it was a lie.

The train gave a violent lurch, jerking me back into the present. My head knocked against the window. I sat up straighter, biting back the pain. Across the aisle, a boy was sobbing into his hands, his thin shoulders shaking. A girl with a stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest stared vacantly at the floor. No one spoke. No one comforted them. We were too far past comfort now.

The train plunged into a tunnel and darkness swallowed the carriage. For a moment, all I could hear was the rattle of the wheels and the sound of my breath, fast and shallow. My heart hammered painfully in my chest.

Light exploded back through the windows as we shot out into the open countryside. And that’s when I saw them.

Black shapes against the grey sky, swooping low.

Planes.

German planes.

A flash of silver beneath the clouds, before the rising wail of engines cut through the air like knives.

"GET DOWN!" someone screamed.

A deafening roar. A blast of heat. The windows erupted inward with a shower of glass, but not before I had threwn myself beneath the seat as the train swayed violently. A woman shrieked. Luggage crashed to the floor. A baby screamed.

Machine guns fired with a cold, calculated sound that cut through the chaos like a surgeon’s scalpel.

Another blast rocked the carriage sideways. My head smacked against the floor. Pain bloomed across my temple, reminding me of when I had bumped my head on the window mere minutes before. When the violence was so far away.

Smoke filled the air, bitter and choking, burning my lungs.

"HELP! SOMEONE HELP!"

A woman stumbled down the aisle, clutching her arm. Blood streamed through her fingers.

“Where’s my baby?” someone else sobbed.

I curled into myself, clutching my knees. Stay small. Stay quiet. That’s what Mother had told me during the air raids in London.

A third blast. The train screamed in protest, harmonizing with the sound of metal twisting and buckling.

And then… silence.

I lay frozen, heart thundering in my ears, trying desperately not to cough as dust and smoke thickened the air. My hands shook as I peeled myself off the floor. Through the shattered window, I saw the dark silhouettes of planes retreating into the clouds, over fields scarred with fire.

I recoiled when a hand touched my arm.

“It’s alright,” a voice said.

I turned. A young man in a conductor’s uniform crouched beside me. His face was pale beneath the soot streaking his cheeks.

"Come on," he said, helping me to my feet. "We have to get you all out of here."

I followed him through the wreckage, swallowing the taste of burning metal, along with other children who stumbled down the embankment. Their faces were bloodless with shock, and I imagined mine looked the same.

A layer of frost covered the grass, soaking my feet and my breath came in uneven intervals as my knees trembled.

A woman approached. From a distance she looked a bit like Mother. Tall, thin, wrapped in a dark coat. Ever her eyes mirrored hers, soft and dark beneath the brim of her hat.

"Are you alright, dear?"

I nodded, even though I wasn’t.

"I’m Mrs. Wainwright," the woman said gently. "You’ll be coming with me now. I have a room ready for you."

I stared at her. "Do you know where Mother is?"

Mrs. Wainwright’s mouth twitched. "I’m sure she’ll be in touch soon."

Another lie. I saw it in her eyes.

But I said nothing. Just nodded and took her hand.

…

Mrs. Wainwright’s house was like a tomb. Cold. Silent. Hidden away at the edge of an even smaller village, surrounded by endless fields and low stone walls.

Though she showed me kindness, I refused to form an attachment. She was not my mother. I already had a mother.

September came and brought with it a letter. Mrs. Wainwright’s hands trembled as she opened it at the kitchen table.

“What is it?” I asked, anxiety creeping into my voice.

Mrs. Wainwright’s fingers shook as she folded the paper, with a pained expression.

"Margaret… I'm so sorry."

My heart clenched, but my face remained stoic, prepared for the blow I knew was coming.

"Has she passed?" I whispered.

Tears welled in Mrs. Wainwright’s eyes. "Yes," she murmured.

I stared out the window, focusing on the vast, cold expanse of the grey sky, feeling emptiness settle within me.

...

The war dragged on, and I grew, both in height and strength.

Then, one morning, Mrs. Wainwright handed me another letter.

“The war is over,” she whispered gently.

It was time for me to go home.

...

As I sat by the train window, blurred greens and greys sped past. My reflection stared back, aged and hollow-eyed from all I'd seen.

Across from me, a woman gently held her sleeping son. She smiled faintly, but I couldn't manage one in return.

The rhythmic rocking of the train soothed me, and I rested my forehead against the cool glass, watching the fleeting landscape.

For the first time in years, I let the tears fall freely.