I left home before I knew where I wanted to go. Haven’t looked at milestones, though I’ve passed some. Can’t do it for long though, or I’ll stiffen up. It feels good to be on the ground, finally not moving. Snatched seconds of sleep under tree cover, coat over my head. Just a dirt track, cutting through gorse. It’s good I forgot to thieve a gun when I ran. I pick up one knife and walk out the door. He beats the boy, tries to thrash the nowhere out of him. And there’s just a son, a daughter, and a boy. Longer he’s there, the more the nice peels right off the family. Now the family’s a mother and father, son and daughter, and a boy. Turns out, you can run to the end of the world and it’ll still find you. Turns out, big unknown’s got people in it. Reminders that nowhere is actually somewhere. Skin from nowhere, and language from nowhere. He brings nowhere along with him into the house. He looks like he doesn’t fit: brown, thin, speaking a language no one knows. People don’t know what nice is.īut the boy from nowhere doesn’t fit. The Earnshaws? They’re a strange lot, and new in these parts, but they’re ours. But they fit so well that people most often forget it. The family’s not generations old, settled here long ago, like the rest. The family’s only been around since the boy was toddling, the girl even smaller. All of them new to the village, or so people say. That’s how it goes wrong.īefore he comes, there’s a house on the moors and a family inside it: mother and father, son and daughter.
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