Prologue
Around them the environment was heavy with voices and chatter of people passing by. The air was chilly and thin. He could hear the screeching of the subway brakes, and looked up at his father. Around his neck was a thick red scarf tattered at the ends. It was something his mother had finished knitting him earlier that day.
He could remember his mother sitting in her old wooden chair, just rocking. The humming still warmed his ears, even as he stood out there in the cold with his wool coat. It was a song she sung but usually hummed. Her crystalline voice rung in his head as he looked around curiously.
His reflection against the glass box stared back at him as the memory of his mother handing him the red scarf played once again in his mind. She had crouched down and kissed him, wishing him luck, as he was to leave with his father.
Then his father spoke to him, shaking him out of his daydream. Turning away from the glass he looked up at the man whom he only stood knee- high up to. His small chubby cheeks were flushed by the cold, but he didn't seem to complain.
"The train is about to arrive," the deep voice of his father announced, "we should hurry and get in line before we lose our spot."
The small boy nodded as his silver-white bangs slowly waved around. Looking back at his reflection, he wondered why he couldn't have looked like his mother. Instead he looked old, similar to his father though his face was still so young. Having his hand pulled on gently the boy turned away from the window and followed his father through the crowd.
For about fifteen minutes they stood there with at least forty people about them, squeezing together in the station. Next to the boy and his father stood a woman in her thirties and a little girl whom appeared to be her daughter. The woman had short, dark brown hair and deep blue eyes and wore a simple coat with large buttons and pockets. She wore gloves and held her purse at her side, while with her free hand she held onto her daughter's hand.
The little girl had a snowcap on as her long, light brown hair fell down her back. The cap had a fuzz ball sewn into the top. She also wore a coat similar to a windbreaker except it was stuffed with cotton and had a hood. It zipped up the front and had mittens sewn into the sleeves.
"I think I left our tickets at the booth." the young boy's father said, "You stay here while I go fetch them, okay?"
Before the boy could nod in response, the man disappeared into the crowd. Again the boy sighed in disappointment. Why did his father always do this? It wasn't that he was irresponsible, it's just he didn't care whether or not his son was always alone to fend for himself. It was as if his father thought the boy could take care of himself as a responsible adult would.
As the boy looked down, the girl let go of her mother's hand and got a little closer to him.
"What is wrong?" she asked. It was obvious she wasn't from the United States because of her broken accent. Her curved, almond eyes blinked a few times as she waited for him to say something.
The boy sniffed, then laughed a little at the girl. It was rather ridiculous how she spoke. One would think she weren't from this country. Although this was obvious, the boy would still be oblivious because of ignorance.
"You talk funny," he said out of nowhere.
"Well, you look funny," she commented, tugging at his white bang. They both smiled and chuckled for a moment until the girl's mother yanked at her arm, pulling her into the other train. Stepping onto the train she looked back to the boy and frowned, waving a little. Her mother just scowled at him, pulling the girl inside.
He could only half smile, as his father came up behind him and picked him up, placing him on his shoulder.
"Tell me if you see our train coming, it's number 89."
Another sigh rose out of his chest as he looked across the heads in the crowd and felt a despondent heaviness in his chest. He knew he'd never see that girl again; ever.
Around them the environment was heavy with voices and chatter of people passing by. The air was chilly and thin. He could hear the screeching of the subway brakes, and looked up at his father. Around his neck was a thick red scarf tattered at the ends. It was something his mother had finished knitting him earlier that day.
He could remember his mother sitting in her old wooden chair, just rocking. The humming still warmed his ears, even as he stood out there in the cold with his wool coat. It was a song she sung but usually hummed. Her crystalline voice rung in his head as he looked around curiously.
His reflection against the glass box stared back at him as the memory of his mother handing him the red scarf played once again in his mind. She had crouched down and kissed him, wishing him luck, as he was to leave with his father.
Then his father spoke to him, shaking him out of his daydream. Turning away from the glass he looked up at the man whom he only stood knee- high up to. His small chubby cheeks were flushed by the cold, but he didn't seem to complain.
"The train is about to arrive," the deep voice of his father announced, "we should hurry and get in line before we lose our spot."
The small boy nodded as his silver-white bangs slowly waved around. Looking back at his reflection, he wondered why he couldn't have looked like his mother. Instead he looked old, similar to his father though his face was still so young. Having his hand pulled on gently the boy turned away from the window and followed his father through the crowd.
For about fifteen minutes they stood there with at least forty people about them, squeezing together in the station. Next to the boy and his father stood a woman in her thirties and a little girl whom appeared to be her daughter. The woman had short, dark brown hair and deep blue eyes and wore a simple coat with large buttons and pockets. She wore gloves and held her purse at her side, while with her free hand she held onto her daughter's hand.
The little girl had a snowcap on as her long, light brown hair fell down her back. The cap had a fuzz ball sewn into the top. She also wore a coat similar to a windbreaker except it was stuffed with cotton and had a hood. It zipped up the front and had mittens sewn into the sleeves.
"I think I left our tickets at the booth." the young boy's father said, "You stay here while I go fetch them, okay?"
Before the boy could nod in response, the man disappeared into the crowd. Again the boy sighed in disappointment. Why did his father always do this? It wasn't that he was irresponsible, it's just he didn't care whether or not his son was always alone to fend for himself. It was as if his father thought the boy could take care of himself as a responsible adult would.
As the boy looked down, the girl let go of her mother's hand and got a little closer to him.
"What is wrong?" she asked. It was obvious she wasn't from the United States because of her broken accent. Her curved, almond eyes blinked a few times as she waited for him to say something.
The boy sniffed, then laughed a little at the girl. It was rather ridiculous how she spoke. One would think she weren't from this country. Although this was obvious, the boy would still be oblivious because of ignorance.
"You talk funny," he said out of nowhere.
"Well, you look funny," she commented, tugging at his white bang. They both smiled and chuckled for a moment until the girl's mother yanked at her arm, pulling her into the other train. Stepping onto the train she looked back to the boy and frowned, waving a little. Her mother just scowled at him, pulling the girl inside.
He could only half smile, as his father came up behind him and picked him up, placing him on his shoulder.
"Tell me if you see our train coming, it's number 89."
Another sigh rose out of his chest as he looked across the heads in the crowd and felt a despondent heaviness in his chest. He knew he'd never see that girl again; ever.