AN: So, this may or may not be a good time to post something like this (?) but, the idea's been bouncing around my head for the entirety of this lockdown. When you live in NYC and have no access to a car, it's a bit hellish staying in your apartment all day. I manage to take a walk once a week, when it's not too crowded, down by the waterfront. But the only other little thing I get to look forward to at the end of the day is a bit of writing, so…. Here it is, and there will be more to come. Be nice please, this is un-beta-ed!

September, 1939

London

Molly lay in her bed, wide awake, staring up into the darkness that was the ceiling. There would be no sleep that night. It was an unavoidable thing: her nerves were strung up too high, her teeth clenched and grinding with the what if's? that chased themselves, unceasingly, through every fleeting cranny in her brain.

The little packing case stood next to the door, filled with all the items the official list had deemed necessary: stockings and underclothes and a nightgown and toothbrush, soap and a few changes of clothes- but no gas mask. Molly didn't know anyone who owned a gas mask anymore; they were a relic of the past, of their parent's lives- a part of the Great War, so many years ago.

Except the War seemed to be here and now, and she was being shipped off to God knew where, to do God knew what, without her parents, without her friends, without a damn thing to call her own besides her toothbrush.

Molly threw back the duvet in frustration, planting her feet on the cold floor. She shivered as she wrapped her ratty dressing gown about herself, flipping her braid over her shoulder as she pulled the door softly open and tiptoed down the landing. Pausing at her parent's bedroom, she listened: nothing, save the creak of her Mum's bed, in some sort of fitful sleep. Dad scarcely moved in the night-time, anymore. He scarcely moved at all.

Pushing the thought from her mind, she crept down the narrow stairs and into Dad's old study. The door whined as it opened and she winced, holding her breath as she waited for the sound of her Mum's voice, but- nothing. She moved farther into the room, careful not to disturb the thick layer of dust that had settled over the furniture, the lamp- everything. The desk loomed up in the gloom, lit only by the soft glow of the street lamp outside. She crouched before it, tracing her hands down to the bottom drawer, turning the key forcefully into its sticky lock.

With a steady hand, she reached in, flipping open the latch of the carrying case. And the coronet camera, once his most prized possession, rested heavy in her palms, all glinting edges and fine lines. She relished the weight of it, the feel of metal and the power to capture the things around her, the remembrance of her Father's elation when it had been a new thing.

So she slid it into the pocket of her dressing gown. The case snapped shut, the drawer pushed closed, the dust lay… only somewhat disturbed. Evidence hidden, but only to the careless eye. And that was good enough for Molly.

xXx

"Be sure to write. You must write, Molly."

"I will, Mum."

Mrs. Hooper's nervous hands dropped the keys to the floor with a clatter. She sighed, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before bending to pick them up. "I haven't the faintest idea where you'll be shipped off to. Somewhere green, I suppose. That's something. It'll be just like on holiday."

"I could stay, you know," Molly said, even as she pulled the door open breathing in London's perpetually dank air.

"You know you can't. It's safer this way. I couldn't bear it, Molly, if I lost you- and what with your Father, as he- as he is now- at least you'll be safe, wherever it is you're going."

"Mum- you should come with me, you both should- "

"You know that's ridiculous, don't even suggest it." shut the door firmly behind them. "Let's go, then." Her lip trembled, ever so slightly, her eyes betraying only the slightest dampness as she marched down the steps into the street. Molly followed behind her at a slower pace, the packing case clutched in her hand already beginning to bruise her skin as it knocked against her knee.

They joined the strange throng of bodies, mothers and daughters and fathers and sons, all moving in a single, final, direction. Children's high voices were oddly hushed; stilted, the very atmosphere charged, as if the slightest wrong gesture would shatter them all.

Molly glanced at her Mother, her face set and stony as the procession moved slowly towards the train station. "I'll be back, Mum," she promised, and took her hand with a confidence she did not feel. "I'll see you soon." Mrs. Hooper looked down at their fingers, as if surprised to find them wound together- then squeezed her daughter's hand tightly in her own.

"I know you will, darling."

The breeze picked up then, plucking at the yellow identification tag pinned to her jacket. Molly wrinkled her nose at the tag, feeling like an idiot with her name fixed to her lapel. But the train station loomed up before them, and suddenly she was glad of the sorry little scrap of yellow, some small reminder of who she was, and where she was from- however distastefully official it might be. "I'm afraid I won't see you again," she blurted suddenly, as the crowed pushed her forward relentlessly, up the steps, up onto the platform.

Her Mother tsked softly, but still clung to Molly's hand. "Of course you will. Molly- you're, look around you- you're one of the oldest ones here. Look at that girl," she nodded to the right, where a petrified little girl in a neatly pressed pink pinafore clung to her own mother's hand. "She can't be more than six! Look after them, dear, at least for the ride- they'll need you."

And indeed, the crowd had begun to break apart into clinging children and wailing mothers as the train whistle began to blow. Smartly dressed attendants in uniform stood beside the compartment doors, helping the children inside, slowly clearing the platform that was so tightly packed Molly could scarcely see her shoes.

"Mum," she said, turning to face Mrs. Hooper. Because there were no other words to be said, nothing that could sum up the tightness in her throat, the fear that plucked at her like a physical, prying thing. "What if I- what if we- "

"Hush," Mrs. Hooper drew her daughter close, breathing in the smell of her, memorizing the feel of her small frame. "Write me," she said into Molly's hair.

Molly nodded, the tears beginning to track down her face. "Love you, Mum," she choked. "Kiss Dad for me, yeah?"

"I will, darling. We'll see you soon. This war… this whole thing, it will be over before we know it. You'll see."

"Everyone onboard! The train will be leaving the station momentarily!" Shouted the attendant nearest them, waving her arm.

The whistle blew again, and the jostle and push of the crowd became unbearable as Molly found herself torn for her Mother and thrust into a compartment, the door slamming behind her. Fighting her way to the window, she leaned out as far as she dared, a handful of other children cramming themselves alongside her as they fought to raise their arms, as one, in farewell.

And she knew, in one sudden, gripping stroke, that she would never forget the look on her Mother's face, as it blended slowly into the crowd.