She arrived on a Saturday with one bag and the specific energy of someone who had been on a train for two hours and had spent that time thinking rather than sleeping.
Seren met her at the station.
She looked at him when she came through the barrier.
Did the assessment — top to bottom, the way she always did, the way their mother had done — and then she hugged him. Properly. The kind that lasted long enough to mean something rather than the brief, functional version they sometimes defaulted to when they were managing things.
"You look better," she said.
"Than what."
"Than the last time I saw you." She pulled back. Looked at him. "Less tired. Different tired."
"Different how."
"The tired of someone who's been doing something rather than the tired of someone who's been holding something up." She picked up her bag. "That's a good difference."
He looked at her.
Sixteen years old.
Going to university in September.
