The train whistle blew. Its wheels caught in skids and shuffles, then took hold.
The cars jolted in tow, and a boy’s eyes never left the girl on the platform.
She hadn’t moved.
Hours later, as he lightly jostled in the seat, he wondered if she was still there.
Her pigtails hanging like floppy rabbit ears.
That was twelve years ago.
And he still thought of her from time to time.
When he smelled soap in the general store.
When he saw a girl run by in a light blue dress.
He wondered if she ever thought of him.
So when he overheard her name in the county building that day, it didn’t feel real. Not right away.
He stopped, turned toward the young deputy beside him. Tall and wide. The kind of man others had probably leaned on since boyhood, just because of his size.
Beau asked, “Did you say Greta Hanson?”
“I did. You know the woman? She’ll be our new schoolteacher.”
Beau let out a dry huff. Maybe it was someone else.
A coincidence. Or her mother.
The deputy raised a brow. “So? You know her?”
“I did. I mean… as a girl. We went to the same church.”
He paused. “But it’s been a long time. Might not be her.”
The two men stood in silence a moment, the deputy waiting for something more. Beau stared at the floor ten feet away.
Finally, the deputy gave a polite hat-tip and turned to leave.
Beau called after him. “When’s she getting in? Did you say?”
The deputy stopped. “Train’s just about due. I’m headed to pick her up now.”
He paused, neck craning slightly.
“Did you wanna come with me?”
Beau shook his head. “Nah. I’ll let her get settled first.”
“Suit yourself.”
The station sat quiet in the afternoon sun, the tracks humming low before the train appeared.
It slowed to a clanking crawl, the rectangles of its doors lining up neatly with the boardwalk like cards at a dealer’s table.
Deputy Willis tied off two horses, knocked dust from his boots, and stepped forward just as the second car opened.
She was the third person off the train.
Smiling.
Bright and clear when she saw the star on his chest.
She laughed once, stepped over, set her bags down, and extended a hand.
“You must be Deputy Willis.”
He wasn’t often short on words, but he wasn’t sure where they all went just now.
Her cheeks were rounded high, tapering to a small, almost pointed chin. Like two commas turned inward.
And her eyes held the blue of the sky overhead, softened somehow by the dust in the air.
He lifted her bags before his mouth could find the words.
“How was the ride in?”
She told him about the trip, the food. How it was better than she expected, though expensive.
They talked casually on the walk into town, boots scuffing gravel in soft rhythm. He found himself hoping she’d keep speaking. Something about the way she told things made him feel like they were already neighbors.
Then Willis remembered Beau.
“I believe there’s someone in town you might know.”
She tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t think so. I haven’t been anywhere.”
“Beau Bradley.”
She stopped walking. The bags shifted slightly in his grip.
She said the name softly, almost to herself.
“Here? In Randolph?”
Her heart thudded in her chest. Willis couldn’t tell. And he wasn’t sure if her surprise came with joy or dread.
He figured he’d find out soon enough.
Greta sat alone in the lobby of the boarding house, her new home.
The only one she’d known since childhood.
She held a cup of coffee, still warm, and visited an old memory.
They were nine years old. In the loft of her father’s barn.
Three boys had chased her inside. She laughed with them, not from fear, but delight.
She’d climbed the ladder ahead of them, hair bouncing, and turned at the top to look down over the edge.
From her dress pocket, she pulled a maple seed.
Held it up like a prize.
“I’ll marry whoever catches it,” she said.
She tossed it into the air with a royal flick of her hand.
Its single flag spun slow… then fast… then slow again.
The boys scrambled, laughing, clawing the air and reaching over one another.
Beau’s hand snapped it clean from the wind.
“It’s me!” he shouted.
They all spun toward the doorway, where her father now stood, broad and unmoving.
The laughter died in the boys’ throats. Their faces fell.
They looked at their shoes, then scattered.
Greta stepped back into the shadow of the loft.
“You can come down, Greta,” her father called.
He rolled up his sleeves, picked up a pitchfork, and stabbed it into the hay pile like he meant it.
She came down slowly.
When her feet touched dirt, he turned to her.
“You shouldn’t encourage them. It’s not ladylike.”
She smirked and kicked at the floor.
“I don’t want to be a lady.”
He stepped closer. His voice cooled.
“That’s not an option, Greta. Is that understood?”
It was rare he took that tone with her. She remembered it still, clear and hard as winter.
And Beau left a week later.
Beau was walking out of the general store, arms full with a wooden crate, when she stepped inside.
He nearly dropped it.
It was her.
No doubt.
He studied her face, every inch familiar, yet honed somehow, shaped by time.
Like someone had carved her childhood face into something finer, more defined.
But the eyes were the same. That soft wonder still lived in them.
She stopped, smiled warmly.
“I thought that was you.”
Beau lit up.
“Greta. I can’t believe you’re here.”
They made plans to meet that evening at the boarding house for coffee, to catch up.
They sat at a small round table in the parlor, lit by a low lamp and the orange flicker of the fireplace.
When the waitress left, Beau reached into his coat pocket.
He pulled out a folded piece of thin paper, almost transparent from years of wear.
He set it on the table between them without a word.
She opened it.
Inside lay a single maple seed.
Its wing torn just slightly, the shape like a semiquaver note on a sheet of music.
She stared.
And gravity pulled down the corners of her mouth.
The tears came without warning.
Not in a rush, but slow and warm, like rain finding its path down a windowpane.
Beau leaned forward, not fully understanding.
“You’re telling me… your heart didn’t break on that platform?”
She looked at him, eyes soft, full of apology.
“It did, Beau.
It did…”
She reached across the table and took his hand.
“…but it healed.”
The words hit like dirt.
Like the cold ground after a fall.
He sat back. His lips tightened, tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
He nodded slowly, picked up his coffee, and took a sip.
The seed still lay between them.
He’d told her what needed telling. And he didn’t have the winning hand.
But just like being thrown from a bronco, that didn’t mean he’d stop trying.
He glanced at a nearby table and offered the kind of smile you give a stranger, one without love.
Then he looked back into his cup.
The coffee didn’t taste right tonight.
And in the fading twilight the train whistle blew again. Keeping its schedule.