Steam hissed from the engine, porters shouted over the clatter of trunks, and families pressed together in tight, weepy knots. Mothers smoothed lapels. Fathers checked pocket watches. Younger siblings clung to legs and howled.
Y/n stood alone near the end of the platform, a battered suitcase at her feet.
The secondhand uniform itched at her collar. Wool, too heavy for early September. The cuffs were frayed where someone else's wrists had worn them thin.
Around her, girls in brand-new blazers shrieked and threw their arms around each other as if they'd been separated by war, not summer holiday.
No one looked at Y/n.
She kept her back straight. Chin level. Her face was smooth and blank, the way a dead child's looks in an open casket.
