The Moving Van
The moving van arrived at half past nine in the morning.
Lena watched it from the back seat of the family car. Her mother was at the wheel. Her father, who had driven up two days ahead, was waiting on the kerb of the new house. The new house was older than the old house. It had ivy on one wall. It looked, to Lena, like the kind of house that already had its own people in it and was politely making space.
Lena had cried for most of the previous month. She had cried saying goodbye to her best friend Hanna. She had cried packing up her room. She had cried, very quietly, on the long drive north. Today, she had decided, she would not cry. There was nobody in this new town to see her cry, and crying alone was the worst kind.
She got out of the car.
She helped carry her boxes into her new bedroom. The bedroom faced the lane. The lane was narrow and bordered with old hedges. Across the lane was another house — about Lena's parents' age, redbrick, with a small garden. In an upstairs window of that house, there was a face.
A face Lena's age. Watching.
The face did not duck back when Lena saw it. The face just kept looking. Steadily. Curious, but not unfriendly.
Lena stared back for a moment. Then she carried her box inside.
By lunch the moving van was empty. By dinner the kitchen was working. By bedtime Lena was lying in her unmade bed, surrounded by stacked boxes, listening to