What A Clock Remembers
The boat — there was, in the end, an actual boat, although the *boat package* had not specifically meant a boat — left in mid-October.
Pia's family had chosen the smallest of the three inland cities. It was three hundred kilometres from Saltgate. It was on a river. It had, the brochure had said, *gentle terrain, good schools, a thriving community*. None of these things meant much to Pia. The brochure could have said anything.
The morning of the boat — they were taking a small ferry up the coast, then a long bus inland — Pia walked, alone, down Avila Road one last time.
The road was almost empty. The Halpens' house had a single light on. Her grandmother's house had — Pia could see, even from the end of the road — her grandmother sitting in the front window, drinking tea, watching the morning. The other houses were boarded.
Pia walked slowly. She had, in her bag, the brass clock and the notebook. She had, in her pocket, a small smooth stone Marek had given her. She had, in her chest, a feeling she did not, at fourteen, fully have words for. The closest word was *full*. She felt — heavily and entirely — full.
She got to her grandmother's gate. Her grandmother stood up at the window. Pia went in.
They had, the night before, said all the things. There was no new conversation to have. They simply hugged for a long time. Her grandmother smelled of the kitchen and the cardamom