The Blue Hour

The train pulled in just after five, and the light on the water was the exact blue she had been trying, for twenty years, to describe to strangers.

She had rehearsed the walk from the station a thousand times in her head. In none of those rehearsals had the bakery been closed, the bench been painted green, or her hands been quite so cold.

He was not at the harbour. Of course he was not. She had not written to say she was coming. She had not, in truth, decided to come until the morning of, standing in her kitchen with a cup of tea gone cold in her hand.

But the sea was there, and the light was there, and for a long moment that was enough.