The platform at Thrushwood station is a narrow ribbon of grey stone, pinned between the rising green of the dales and the hiss of the morning train. Marian Halliday steps down, her suitcase heavy in one hand, and the air immediately smells of damp limestone and wild garlic. It is a sharp, clean shock after the stale heat of the carriage. She adjusts the strap of her satchel, her fingers brushing the cool silver chain at her throat, and watches the steam dissolve into the pale Yorkshire light.
The village feels suspended in time, a cluster of slate roofs and ivy-choked walls clinging to the hillside. Marian is here for a summer of quiet—a caretaker’s reprieve from her own empty house in the wake of Anna’s move to Bristol. Geoffrey Thirsk had sounded frail on the phone, his voice a papery rasp as he gave her the instructions for the bookshop keys. He hadn't mentioned anyone else coming home.
Most passengers hurry toward the car park, but one figure lingers. Further down the platform, a man with a weathered duffel bag stops walking and turns slowly toward her.
