The Woman at Noona

“Some places don’t stay behind just because you drive away—they hide in the rearview, waiting for the next time you blink.”

The servo appeared out of nowhere.

One moment it was just the endless road and the usual sprawl of dust and silence—the winter sun dragging long, lazy shadows across the tarmac, stretching the world out like old elastic. Then suddenly—like someone had forgotten to hide it properly—there it was: a squat, low-roofed building crouched by the roadside, half-sunk in the late light, its faded signage clinging to the walls like old paint on skin.

The kind of place you could miss by blinking.

The kind that looked like it had been forgotten, then remembered, then half-forgotten again.

Mum slowed the car, turning off the highway with a crunch of gravel that jolted us in our seats. Mack stirred beside me, the ping of stones against the undercarriage sharp and strange after so many hours of smooth road. It sounded like something breaking.

“Where are we?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, his face creased where it had pressed against the window. The mark ran from his cheek to his temple, like a scar drawn in condensation.

“Just stopping for fuel,” Mum said. Her voice was paper-dry, bleached and frayed like the old flag drooping on the pole outside, its red and blue now shades of grey.

I leaned forward, the seatbelt tugging across my chest, and pressed my nose to the window. The glass was cold against my skin, and my breath made a small cloud that lingered briefly before fading. It smelled faintly of dust and seat-fabric and the past.

The servo didn’t look haunted. But it didn’t look alive, either.

It looked like something that had fallen through a crack in time and landed here by accident. One half of the building was sun-blasted and peeling, the other side tagged with old graffiti—nothing readable, just scribbles, loops, shapes that might have meant something once. A battered blue payphone leaned sideways like it had given up. The sign above it read TELSTRA, but most of the letters were chipped, hanging on like loose teeth.

The fuel pump was rusted at the base, its display blank—just three black rectangles where numbers should be. Someone had stuck a sticker over the grime. Unleaded 91. It looked like it hadn’t been updated in a decade.

A fly buzzed past my ear, its droning loud in the stillness. I waved it away lazily, but it returned again, circling like it knew something I didn’t.

Somewhere, a dog barked. Far off. Or maybe not real. Maybe just memory.

Charlie’s bark.

My brain trying to comfort me with something familiar in a place that had none.

Mum turned the engine off. The silence afterwards was sharp. The kind of silence that made your ears ring. Then the driver’s door opened and shut—harder than she meant it to. The sound echoed through the flat air like a crack. Startled, a flock of galahs burst from a nearby mallee tree in a rush of pink wings and startled shrieks. They swirled once in the cold air, then vanished into the lowering sky.

Mum didn’t move straight away.

She stood by the car, still gripping the handle, her head turned—not toward us, but back the way we’d come. Her eyes scanned the road like she expected something to emerge from the distance. Something just out of sight. Something following.

The highway was empty. But she didn’t look convinced.

Then she turned, slowly, towards the sun. It was sinking now, low in the west, a golden coin balanced on the horizon, burning everything it touched. The red dirt had turned copper. The grass glowed at the edges. Her face caught the light and for a moment, she looked almost transparent. Like something lit from within and hollowed out.

She moved again—purposefully—flipping the fuel cap open and sliding the nozzle into place. Her other hand stayed wrapped around her phone. Her mouth was set—thin and pale and unmoving. Not pressed in anger. Just... holding.

Like someone who didn’t trust what might come out if she let it open.

In the back seat, Mack rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter. His voice was raw with tiredness.

“I’m thirsty.”

The words sounded loud, somehow. Important, even though they weren’t. Just true.

Mum didn’t turn around. “Inside, then. Two minutes. Nothing sugary.”

I looked out at the servo again.

The Open sign buzzed above the door—a faint pink neon glow flickering on and off, as if undecided. It made a sound like a trapped insect. Beneath it, the door hung crooked on its hinges, a piece of cardboard taped over the glass where it had cracked, with faded handwriting across it:

YES WE’RE OPEN – PLEASE KICK TO UNSTICK

I swallowed. My mouth was dry. My tongue felt like old cloth.

Mack got out first, easing the door shut behind him like he was trying not to wake a sleeping animal. It clicked softly, barely a sound at all.

I followed, one hand still wrapped tight around Ribbons, the other gripping my notebook against my chest. Their textures grounded me—Ribbons’ fur gone threadbare in places, matted from days of being held too tight, and the notebook’s smooth cardboard cover, slightly warped from sweat. Familiar things. Safe things.

Things that said I am real. I am here.

The air outside had changed while we were inside the car. Whatever warmth once was, had drained away with the sun’s retreat, leaving behind a sharp winter chill that nipped at our cheeks and turned our breath into little clouds that vanished almost as soon as we made them. My fingers stiffened around Ribbons’ waist.

We crossed to the servo together, shoes crunching on loose gravel.

A warped sign hung above the door, the paint faded and peeling like old skin. Most of the letters had flaked away, but you could still make out the words: Noona Roadhouse. The kind of name that sounded like it belonged to a ghost story, or a local legend no one told anymore.

Mack didn’t say anything, but I noticed the way his eyes scanned the building before he pushed open the door—like he was checking for traps, or ghosts. Just in case.

The door stuck a little, then gave with a reluctant groan. A bell above it jangled—thin and tinny, like it was tired of being asked to notice people.

Inside was dim. Dusty. Strange.

A single fluorescent tube flickered above the counter, its buzz blending with the low hum of an old fridge. The light it cast made everything look pale and unfinished, like the colour had been washed out by time or memory.

The shelves were half-empty. What was left looked wrong somehow, like it had been sitting too long and had started to forget what it was. A couple of chip packets slumped against each other like they’d given up, their foil creased and dull. Some road maps curled in on themselves on a wire rack—edges browned, corners torn, places faded to near-invisibility. A cluster of tinned pineapple sat in a corner like forgotten guests at a party, their labels so faded they might as well have been blank. The dates stamped on the bottoms had smudged into illegibility.

I nudged Mack and nodded toward the pineapple tins. “Think they’re still edible?”

He squinted. “Only if you’ve got a death wish.”

“Maybe they’re cursed,” I whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. “Eat one and your face turns into a tin can.”

Mack didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Then I’ll save one for you.”

“Wow. Generous.”

He gave a small grunt that might’ve been agreement, then wandered over to the fridge and opened it. The cold air didn’t hit us—because there wasn’t any. It just made a hollow sound, like the fridge itself was trying to remember how to be useful. Mack grabbed two water bottles anyway. They looked cold but felt barely cooler than the room. He added a packet of Shapes from the nearly-empty snack shelf and walked to the counter, his trainers making soft scuffs on a linoleum floor worn through in patches to bare, cracked concrete.

The woman behind the counter didn’t speak right away. Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

She just stared at him.

Her eyes were pale—blue like a washed-out winter sky—and they didn’t look directly at Mack so much as through him. Not unkindly. But intently. Like she expected something from him. Like she was trying to line up the shape of him with something she half-remembered.

Her skin was thin and freckled, stretched over high cheekbones in a way that made her look fragile—but not weak. The kind of fragility that didn’t need protecting. Her face was mapped with constellations of sunspots and tiny scars, like she’d lived outdoors long enough to absorb part of the landscape. Her greying hair was pulled back into a low, practical bun, and wisps of it caught the flickering light like silver thread. She wore a thick woollen cardigan over a faded dress, both of them dusted with lint, as if she'd stepped out from between the pages of an old photo album.

“You’re a long way from anywhere,” she said.

Her voice didn’t match the rest of her.

It was rich. Deep. Like it had been kept in a box for safekeeping and only brought out on special occasions. It wrapped around the air like smoke—warm and strange and heavy with something I couldn’t name.

Mack didn’t answer. He just stood there. Still. Waiting.

The silence stretched tight. I could hear the fridge buzz, the ceiling fan ticking with every slow rotation. I reached out and tapped the packet of Shapes in his hand.

“If she gives you cursed pineapple, don’t trade me for it.”

“Deal,” Mack muttered without looking at me. His voice was quiet, but that same twitch of a smile came back for just a second.

The woman didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she did. Her eyes shifted to me, and for one heartbeat, I froze.

Not because she was scary. She wasn’t.

But something in her expression changed. Like she recognised me. Not in a “Have we met?” kind of way, but in the way a person recognises a line from a dream they can’t quite place. A flicker passed across her face—so brief I might’ve imagined it. But it was enough to raise goosebumps on my arms.

There was something knowing in her eyes. Too knowing.

“Big storm coming,” she said, passing Mack the coins.

The change clinked dully into his palm. He frowned slightly, rubbing them with his thumb like they were colder than they should be.

The woman’s words weren’t just about the weather.

You could feel it.

They hung in the air like something unfinished. A warning disguised as small talk. A message inside a message. And even after she stopped speaking, the words stayed—settling over everything like a thin layer of dust.

Mack nodded. “Thanks.”

He didn’t look back at her. Neither did I.

We left quickly, the Shapes under his arm, the bottles tucked against his chest.

The bell jingled again as we pushed through the door, louder this time.
Almost eager. As though the building itself was relieved to see us go.

Mum was still by the car, one hand on the pump, the other still gripping her phone like it might fly away if she let go. Her eyes flicked from us to the servo door to the empty highway and back again, quick and jerky, as though she was tracing lines only she could see. Invisible paths. Invisible threats.

“Get in.”

Her voice was clipped. Not unkind. But done with waiting.

We didn’t argue.

Mack opened the rear door and slid in first, and I followed, clutching Ribbons close to my chest, her one loose arm flapping against my ribs as I moved. The car’s interior welcomed us like a memory—its worn fabric seats, the soft creak of the door as it shut, the warm fug of leftover sausage roll and old air freshener. The smell was oddly comforting. Familiar. Real.

We waited for mum while she left us to pay for the petrol. She returned with brisk strides, and slid into the driver’s seat with a sharp breath and slammed the door harder than she needed to.

The car rumbled to life. Mum didn’t speak. Just pulled away from the pump with a bump and crunch of gravel, the servo shrinking behind us with each rotation of the tyres.

I turned around to watch it go.

Pressed my forehead to the cold glass, the surface already misting with my breath. My hair stuck slightly where it brushed the window, static clinging from the dry air. I squinted through the distortion.

The woman was still there.

Still behind the counter.

Watching.

She didn’t move. Didn’t raise a hand. Didn’t look surprised to see us going.

Just stood there, half-lit by the flickering overhead light, her pale cardigan dull in the grey-blue shadows. She looked smaller now—almost part of the building, like something carved into its foundations, left behind when time moved on.

And the servo disappeared behind a low rise in the road. Just gone. Like it had never been there.

But I could still feel her eyes. Still feel the weight of them.

A pressure between my shoulder blades, a tingling at the back of my neck. Like when you walk past a mannequin that looks too lifelike, and even though it doesn’t move, something in your brain stays on high alert.

The road unspooled in front of us again, smooth and empty, flanked by endless scrub.

Mack stared out his window in silence. Mum’s grip on the wheel was tight. The tyres hummed beneath us, steady as a heartbeat.

And somewhere behind, far behind, the servo sat like a forgotten thought. But the woman’s gaze had made itself a passenger. And it was riding with us now.