Train station kindness

The logistics of running away as a minor are too many and too complex to pull of successfully. At the train station I stared up at the schedule wondering if I had enough to go as far as my bruised legs could carry me. Wondering if I had enough time, money, strength. Already I had begun to reconsider whether the latest beating really was the straw that had broken my back, certainly my father's belt had seemed determined to. The aches and the slow burning sensation over my body was not new to me, I remembered that the bruises only hurt when I touched them, or moved, or sat down. She was much older than me, reading The Goldfinch. I stare at her, she looks up, makes eye contact, makes her way to me and sits. She doesn't ask if I'm alright. I think we both sense that it's a stupid question. She takes out from a bag a sandwich and hands it to me. I eat it without thanking her. She does not seem to want thanks. She feels both intensely caring and aloof at the same time. Round brown eyes framed by a cloud of brown hair lined with silver. A soft mouth and sharply angled nose, her features seem to be at war with each other.In my mind, I have already decided to head back to my hellhole. As if sensing my resignation, she sighs for us both, turns to me and says "Keep your head up, you've got it," stands and walks away. Her words remain with me. A year later, I leave.