What Had She Said

By Peter Bowden


The train pulled out just after midnight, heading west through the dark fields. He had only the coat on his back and the envelope in his pocket, sealed with a name that didn’t belong to him anymore. The stars were clear above the prairie, hard and cold like bits of broken mirror. He thought about the letter she’d written, the one he hadn’t opened yet, and tried not to think about the weight of it. "Sleep well when you get there," she had said. He didn’t know if she meant the place or the end.

The towns blinked past like thoughts he couldn’t hold onto—tiny clusters of light swallowed by night. Somewhere out there, children were playing with fireflies, old men were whittling stories into the porch rails, and the smell of cut grass clung to the skin of the earth. He remembered a summer once, a porch swing and lemonade, her hair like wild dandelions. That was a long time ago, or maybe just yesterday, the way memory bends. He looked at the mountains coming into view, tall like sleeping gods.

By dawn, the world had cooled into silence. He stepped off the train into a town he didn’t know, the letter still unopened. He thought maybe he’d find a diner and sit where the sunlight spilled across the formica, maybe order coffee and pretend the day had always belonged to him. He put his hand in his pocket, felt the shape of the envelope, and smiled. "Sleep well when you get there." Maybe he finally had.

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