Words.
What were the last words he’d said to her?

It had been three years.

The only words she could hear now were that of her teacher winding up the final moments of the day, her voice echoing tormenting ticks and exaggerated tocks as the class yawned in waiting for the bell to ring.
She stared at the clock.
Hoping, as she did every day, for that sound to never come; wanting every second to sprize and stretch between the finger upon that face and tear away the time and anger that was to greet her once she got home.
Dad.

How did she cope?
She didn’t.
Mouth shut, chin up, tell no one.

The bell rang.
Bags rustled, chairs screeched, feet thumped.
Her smile rose along with her body as she slotted her chair away, picked up her bag and walked out of the classroom door. A childline poster faded as it had done for the last three years; the backdrop of her exit from class 10H out on to the grit of the slush ridden school yard.

The worst Winter for 40 years.
That’s what the news had said.
The news was wrong.
The worst winter for Lyla had been 3 years ago.
3 years ago today her 8 year old brother had died in a tragic snow sledging accident.
That’s what the news had said.
The news was wrong.
Her brother had been killed.

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