The Weight of Small Promises

“Every promise feels light when spoken, but heavy once it’s carried in the heart.” — Jasmine Dallow

After breakfast, the sisters moved in easy tandem, clearing the table with the quiet synchronicity that came from years of unspoken agreement. Plates stacked, cutlery gathered, crumbs brushed from the worn oilcloth surface—it all happened without need for instruction. Their shared rhythm was as natural as breathing, a domestic choreography passed down like muscle memory through a hundred similar mornings.

In the sink, warm water steamed up gently, curling against the edge of the chipped porcelain basin. The scent of lemon soap mixed with the lingering sweetness of syrup, creating a comforting, almost nostalgic blend. Violet rolled up her sleeves and plunged her hands into the water, her fingers searching blindly for the first plate. The clink of ceramic on ceramic echoed softly in the enclosed space, joined by the rhythmic sound of the tap and the occasional squeak of cloth against enamel.

The simplicity of the task calmed her. Yet beneath that surface stillness, Violet’s thoughts had already begun to wander—slipping past the walls of the house, beyond the neat back garden, out into the wild.

She saw Mandy’s mischievous grin, all teeth and daring, usually leading the charge into forbidden places. Michelle’s careful eyes, always scanning, always calculating what they could get away with. And Rebecca, quiet but sharp, catching things the others missed, her silence often more powerful than speech. Together they were a kind of four-pointed star—each different, each necessary. Their friendship was not one of gentle affection but fierce allegiance, a pact forged in rusted corridors, midnight treks, and the shared thrill of transgression.

Broken Hill might have forgotten how to dream, but they hadn’t.

“Are you meeting up with Mandy and the others later?” Jasmine’s voice, soft and direct, broke through the current of Violet’s reverie. She was drying a plate with slow, deliberate movements, watching her sister out of the corner of her eye.

“Probably,” Violet said, scrubbing at a stubborn patch of syrup clinging to a fork like dried sap. “We’re heading up to the old lookout again. There’s something about that place... at sunset, when the sky goes all molten and the light hits the dirt just right—it’s like the land’s been set alight.”

Jasmine’s eyes widened, the towel in her hands momentarily forgotten. “I bet,” she said earnestly. “You always find the best spots. Do you think... maybe I could come with you sometime?”

Violet paused. She turned the question over in her mind like a stone with a rough edge. She knew what their outings involved—the risks, the recklessness, the moments of danger disguised as play. But she also heard the hope in Jasmine’s voice, delicate and daring, like the first flutter of wings against a windowpane. Violet remembered being thirteen—remembered what it felt like to be left behind, always peering in at something just out of reach.

“You know what?” she said at last, turning to meet Jasmine’s gaze. “I think that could be arranged. Maybe not this time, but soon. I’ll talk to the girls, see what they think.”

Jasmine beamed, her whole face alight with delight. “Really? Oh, Vi, that would be amazing!”

Violet smiled too, the corners of her mouth twitching upward as she rinsed the last plate and passed it across. “You’ll have to keep up though. Those girls don’t slow down for anyone.”

“I’ll keep up,” Jasmine said, her voice full of quiet determination. “I promise.”

The promise hung there, unnoticed by either of them, delicate and true, like dust catching light in the morning sun.

As the last dish was dried and stacked, and the tea towel hung neatly over the oven rail, Violet’s hands slowed, her gaze drifting to the window where light spilled across the garden’s dry earth. The jacaranda tree, still young, trembled faintly in the breeze—its early blossoms hinting at spring’s full arrival. Yet her mind was far from home, drawn instead to a figure that didn’t belong in the realm of domestic routine.

Ethan Mitchell.

He came to her like a mirage: cool in the desert heat, strange in all the ways that mattered. A solitary figure carved from dusk and silence, his presence lingered in her thoughts like incense—faint, smoky, impossible to ignore. She remembered their first meeting vividly, almost too vividly, as if it had occurred in a dream rather than on the cracked gravel path of the town’s old cemetery.

She’d been exploring alone, sketching the broken headstones and reading names half-swallowed by time, when he’d appeared among the shadows of iron angels and crumbling mausoleums. Tall, lean, and slightly out of place—he’d worn a long dark coat despite the heat, and his voice had been low, almost reverent, as though speaking too loudly might wake the dead. His eyes—an unnerving shade of blue—had held hers a moment too long, and from that single look, something inside Violet had shifted.

Ethan spoke of spirits not with drama but with conviction, as though he bore witness to things others refused to see. Whether he believed in his ghost stories or simply wore them as armour, Violet didn’t know. But she was drawn to him nonetheless, helplessly. Their meetings had become irregular rites—at dusk, at the edge of things, where shadows ran long and questions lingered. Only Michelle knew, having stumbled upon one such meeting and extracted a solemn vow that Violet would be careful. Jasmine, more intuitive than she let on, had pieced together the rest.

“You’re thinking about Ethan again, aren’t you?” Jasmine’s voice was quiet, a soft intrusion that cut through the reverie without shattering it.

Violet blinked, caught mid-thought. A blush crept up her neck, warm and uninvited. “Maybe,” she murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture more bashful than she intended. “He’s... different.”

Jasmine raised an eyebrow as she leaned against the counter, arms folded, her small frame somehow radiating the poise of someone older than her years. “Different how?”

Violet exhaled slowly, fumbling for words that wouldn’t sound ridiculous out loud. “He just... gets it,” she said at last, gesturing vaguely as if meaning might fall into her palm. “What it’s like to feel stuck here. Like you’re meant for something else, something bigger—but you’re walled in by dirt roads and gossip. And there’s something about him... he’s got this mystery, this... stillness. It’s kind of intoxicating.”

Jasmine tilted her head, her brow tightening ever so slightly. “Just be careful, alright? People like that—people who seem like they know everything—they usually don’t tell you the whole story.”

Violet smiled, not mockingly, but with a gentle sort of fondness. “I know, Jazzy. I really do. But sometimes, it’s the secrets that make life interesting. And anyway—” she reached out, giving Jasmine’s shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze, “I can handle myself.”

“I know you can,” Jasmine replied, her face softening. “You’re the toughest person I know. Just... don’t forget you can always talk to me. About anything. Even the weird ghost guy with the long coat.”

Violet laughed—a real, throaty laugh—and without thinking, pulled her sister into a tight, impetuous hug. Jasmine stiffened for only a second before melting into it.

“I won’t forget,” Violet whispered into her hair. “You’re the best sister a girl could ask for, Jazzy.”

For a fleeting moment, there was nothing but warmth between them. The sun outside edged higher. And beyond the window, the wind stirred the jacaranda blossoms into a soft purple rain.

As the morning sun climbed steadily, its rays grew bolder, pouring through the windows in golden streaks that pooled on the linoleum like spilled light. The gentle hush of early dawn had fully lifted, giving way to the crisp clarity of a school-day morning. Dust motes danced lazily in the sunlight, and somewhere beyond the fence, a kookaburra cackled its strange, giddy song into the wind.

Violet stood still for a moment, suspended in her own drifting thoughts—the phantom weight of Ethan’s gaze, the lure of secret places, the almost unbearable vastness of dreams waiting just beyond reach. But it was Jasmine’s voice that pulled her gently back to the here and now.

“We should get ready for school,” she said, her tone light but edged with resignation. She glanced at the wall clock, its hands stubbornly edging forward with quiet authority. The ticking had grown louder in the silence, like a soft reminder that the world outside didn’t wait for wanderers. “Mrs Golding won’t be happy if I’m late again.”

Violet groaned theatrically and let her head loll backwards, as if mortally wounded. “Ugh, school,” she lamented, dragging out the word with all the drama of a Shakespearean heroine. “Remind me again why we have to go when we’re this close to the holidays? It’s practically criminal.”

Jasmine giggled, her laugh light and bright, as if it had been scooped from a bell jar. “Because, dear sister,” she said with mock solemnity, “education is the key to all those grand adventures you’re always banging on about.”

“Touché,” Violet muttered with a crooked grin, conceding the point with a playful salute. She rolled her shoulders back, inhaled deeply, and exhaled as if steeling herself for battle. “Alright then. Let’s face another day in the hallowed halls of learning. Who knows? Maybe today’s the day something actually happens.”

Jasmine raised an eyebrow knowingly. “Something always happens when you’re involved.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Violet turned toward the bench and reached for her bag. Her trusty backpack—scuffed, sun-faded, and peppered with ink stains—sat slouched beside the kitchen chair like a faithful dog. She slung it over one shoulder, the familiar weight settling across her back, grounding her. Inside were textbooks, scribbled notes, and a half-eaten apple from yesterday. The usual tools of obligation, heavy with the dull gravity of routine.

As she moved toward the door, Violet paused for just a moment, allowing her eyes to travel across the kitchen. The breakfast dishes had been washed and put away. The soft hum of the sewing machine thrummed from the adjoining room, steady and reassuring. The smell of pancakes lingered in the air, clinging to the curtains and the fibres of her shirt. This place—small, worn, imperfect—was home.

From her sewing table, Evelyn looked up. Her eyes, rimmed with quiet fatigue, held an unshakable steadiness. In them, Violet saw the strength that had stitched their family together through every tight month and lonely evening.

“Have a good day, girls,” she called out, her hands never pausing. “And Violet—remember what we talked about. Dreams are wonderful, but it’s your actions that shape your future.”

Violet met her gaze and nodded, a warm flutter in her chest. “I will, Mum. Love you!”

“Love you too, darling.”

The front door creaked open, its hinges long in need of oiling, and the Violet stepped out into the full embrace of the Broken Hill morning. The heat had begun to gather, warming the red soil and curling the edges of old newspapers blown across the street. The sky stretched endlessly above her, sharp and blue and bright with promise.