Thought about walking to the door of the Pedro mansion and standing there with whatever apology she had been composing since the trial and knocking and waiting for the face on the other side of it.
Thought about what Amara's face would do. About whether there were words available that could cover what needed to be covered.
She had not been a sister. She had been, in the most important moments, the opposite.
She did not know if that was a distance that language could cross. Did not know if she had the right to try crossing it. Did not know if Amara, who had been through everything she had been through, had anything left to give in that direction.
She held a ticket for the next train.
The destination board showed several options, and she looked at them and chose the one that was simply away, the direction that was not this city, not this year, not this arrangement of things that had turned out to be built on materials that didn't hold weight.
