A Friendly Face

Anya clutched the worn leather strap of her satchel, the unfamiliar chatter of the marketplace a dizzying tide around her. Even the sky seemed a different shade of grey here, a soft, muted blanket that pressed down on her shoulders. Everything was so… English. The buildings, all stern brick and fussy window boxes, the peculiar way people queued for everything, even the air itself, smelling faintly of damp earth and something sweet, like boiled sweets. She’d tried to smile at a woman selling flowers, a cascade of vibrant colours spilling from woven baskets, but her smile had felt stiff, like a rusty hinge. The woman had just nodded, her gaze sweeping past Anya as if she were just another shadow.

It was the bus stop that finally broke her. She’d been standing there for what felt like an eternity, a small, solitary island in a sea of purposeful striding legs. The bus, a grand red double-decker, had rumbled to a halt, disgorging its passengers with a hiss of brakes. Anya had taken a hesitant step forward, her heart thumping a nervous rhythm against her ribs. She’d rehearsed the words a hundred times in her head, a simple phrase her grandmother had taught her: "One ticket to Willow Creek, please." But when the driver, a burly man with a bristly moustache, had turned his attention to her, the words had tangled themselves into a knot in her throat. She’d opened her mouth, a small squeak escaping, and then, mortified, had simply pointed at the destination displayed on the front of the bus. The driver had grunted, taken her coins, and Anya had scurried to an empty seat, her cheeks burning.

She sank onto the worn fabric of the seat, pulling her knees up to her chest. Outside, the world blurred past in a smear of green fields and hedgerows. She missed the wide, open spaces of home, the familiar lilt of her own language, the easy comfort of knowing where she belonged. Here, she felt like a misplaced puzzle piece, its edges not quite fitting anywhere. The weight of her secret fear, the one her grandmother had gently coaxed from her – the fear of not being accepted, of being too different – settled heavily upon her. She imagined a grand house, filled with stern-faced relatives who would look at her and see only a stranger, a girl who didn’t speak quite right, whose customs were all wrong.