As it happened, I arrived in Tasmania on the same night as the ghost train.

In the airport I scanned the crowd for my brother, regretting my acceptance of his offer to pick me up. I spotted Wes across the floor, his eyes fixed on me as he spoke on his phone. My heart sank. His creased suit and bloodshot eyes, from drink and lack of sleep, said everything.

I trudged over with a small bag of belongings in one hand, and my most valuable possession in the other. When my mother had gifted me her viola for my thirteenth birthday, even my father had been surprised. Seventeen years on, it was more than an instrument for my dreams; it contained every important memory I had of her.

Wes’s voice rose an octave as I neared him. ‘Rome? Bullshit.’

I crouched down and fished my mobile from my bag.

‘Who’s the psych doctor on duty? Tell Martin I’ve got a translator.’ Wes glanced down at me.

I felt a prickle of irritation. Our ten-year age gap may have meant something when I was living in Hobart, but we weren’t going to pick up from where we left off.

‘And tell him to tell Alice. I don’t want a scene when I arrive. I’ll front up to Henry in the morning – this is on me.’

I started a text message to Alessia, saying it was all a mistake, that within a minute of being back I was reminded of why I’d left.

‘Yeah, fluent,’ Wes said.

But it wasn’t fair to worry her. Without Alessia I’d never have found the courage to return. I deleted the message. Wes finished his call. ‘Let’s go.’

I grabbed my bag and viola, and followed him out. As the terminal doors swept open, we stepped into a tepid Tasmanian summer evening…

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