Owen Dawson

The train pulled into the station with a familiar and comforting hiss of steam. The icy air stung my cheeks, snowflakes fell, adding a more solitary touch to the situation. I had been staring at my watch for what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes. Pastor Walter Hayes had prepared me for its arrival, painting a picture of a young woman adrift, burdened with something she hadn't wanted. I tried to imagine her, but the reality was far removed from any image I could conjure.

As the train doors hissed open, a crowd flooded the platform. Among them, I saw her. She was unlike anyone I had ever seen before. There was a hardness about her, a coldness in her gaze that didn't quite match the delicate curve of her belly, the result of such a vile and heartless act against a woman.

I took a deep breath; the smell of coal and iron filled my lungs. Pastor Walter's words echoed in my head: "She's a good girl, Owen. She just needs a chance." I remembered that I was doing the right thing, the good thing. She was a girl in trouble, and I was a lonely farm man who had been alone since childhood, having lost his parents.

Gathering all the courage I could muster, I stepped forward and extended my hand, my palm rough and calloused from a lifetime of work.

"I'm Owen Dawson. You... your husband."

Her eyes met mine, cold and distant like a winter sky. A brief nod was all I received, and I couldn't blame her, given the horrors she had likely endured.

"Welcome to the village of Ravenshare." My farm is nearby, I said, picking up her suitcase. "It's not much, but it's my home."

Her gaze remained fixed on the horizon; I helped her into the carriage to begin our life as husband and wife.

After an awkward silence, I mustered up my courage and spoke.

It's cold, don't you think? Was that all I could think of? Really? Well, I was dying of nerves, even though I didn't show it.