“Cigarette?” she asked.
He lit it for her, touching her cheek with his palm. It felt as if she nestled towards him slightly. “I don’t know if I can let it go like that,” he said. “Stitel and Zymon are dead because of me.”
She inhaled. “No,” she said. “They are dead ... but not because of you.”
“But … it was my idea,” he protested.
“No.” She shook the cigarette between her fingers. “No, they are dead because the Ypatingas Burys shot them,” she said solemnly. “That is the simple truth.”
Head bowed, he reached for the cigarette, flicked it first then took a puff.
“They knew the risks and they died like heroes,” she said. “Let it go,” she sighed. “It’s better like this … it’s better than being murdered helplessly. They are at peace.” Then, in her distant mind, she heard the pistons of the locomotive hiss and then saw the haunting image of Sara with her red scarf staring helplessly. What were their names?
Davie shook his head gently and spread his fingers in the grit on the ledge. He didn’t want to talk about anything. He wondered how she had become be so hard. Even so, he wanted nothing more than to sit next to her and bathe in her voice.
“Maybe, I’m too hard,” she said quietly, second guessing him. “This war has changed me.” She shifted and turned her shoulder towards him. “You don’t know what I’ve seen.”
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