I remember the day you left because the trees were covered in silver and the sky was on fire. 

The sun sank beneath the skyline taking the light with it. Darkness was fast approaching, and with it all that thrived in the night. One such night inhabitant was strolling unconcerned down the cobblestone streets past tall concrete buildings. He didn’t appear much older than seventeen, his hair as black as a raven's wing, and skin as pale as the moonlight. He wore a dark coat against the chill, yet he didn't feel cold. He hadn't in a long time. 

‘What gate is it again?’ Esther asked, dragging her carry-on through the sterile terminal. Something too small to dislodge, but large enough to render the bag useless, was caught behind the wheel. 

That’s what happens when you pay peanuts, Lucy thought. ‘Twenty-six,’ she gritted. It was at least the third time she’d told her. 

Imagination is such a funny thing. When we are young, we fantasise about sailing around the world on a rollicking adventure. Then we hit our twenties: the annoyance of a career paves the way for leery weekends, and we cannot envision life could be better than booze, casual lovers and football. And when we reach old age, we imagine what life would have been like if our last partner – the one we shared twenty, thirty, forty years of life with – had lived another ten. 

Something had taken Lexington Ward’s father down quickly. An illness of sorts, it was presumed. His passing was unprecedented, leaving everyone reeling. The headlines read: 

‘Too young’. 

‘Gunther Ward: lost at his peak’. 

‘The world’s richest man taken before his time’. 

It was late afternoon when I stepped out of Flinders Street Station, my coat damp from the lingering drizzle. My fingers were still numb from the chill as I wandered towards the counter. The umbrella waited for me in the lost-and-found box like a promise: sky-blue, frayed at the edges and ribs crooked like old fingers. It leaned gently against the side of the box as though it had simply grown tired of being forgotten. Among the mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases, it pulsed with a quiet significance, as if holding a secret. 

Anna had a stiffness about her. She was not entirely comfortable – drawing herself tight, postured like a ballerina, holding herself in perfect straightness. She was thin, almost see-through, her skin pale and bespeckled. There was a drained look with a sense of lingering sadness. But she was weirdly calm, almost too calm. Anna looked like she was from another time. She had an old-fashioned elegance, which could have been from the 1930s. Definitely pre–World War II. She was waiting to grow into herself. Not quite beautiful – but almost there.