Fiacre

She stood in the doorway of the old country home, the dilapidated collection of wood and bricks in which she had been raised. Her black hair curled around her neck, the ends whipping to and fro in the wind. Her startling blue eyes lingered on this place she was loving and leaving. Then she took a deep breath, sighed, and turned away. She figured she would be back someday, welcome or not, but that did not ease her pain.

She stepped up into the fiacre and let the door close behind her. As the carriage pulled away and rolled down the dusty dirt road, she caught sight of the driver's hands. Through the window, she could not see his body or his face, only those long slim fingers that held and guided the reigns so firmly. They were large and yet elegant, and the skin was smooth and golden.

They were taking her away from herself. They were leading her someplace new, and once they did, they would leave her. So she memorized those hands in her head and in her heart.

Years later she would dream of those hands. Guiding her once more. She would dream of the man they belonged to, though she had never known him. She would wait for the day that he would return to take her home again.