From the story The New World
The next morning Kristen woke up a half hour before sunrise to the faintest pre-dawn glow creeping in along the top of the bedroom curtain. Her dreams during the night were not nearly so dramatic as the riveting dream that had unfolded during her long nap in the afternoon, the one that ended with her looking across a frozen saloon and a century’s worth of time to her own younger face in a mirror above the bar.
She was awake enough to be aware that she missed her son Kelton, who was now 13, and slow to gain self-confidence on account of his problem with stuttering. He would, she imagined, be sitting down to lunch at school about now back in Ireland, and it pained her to think he would be sitting alone.
And then in the stillness and the slowly ebbing darkness she detected a deep, ancestral sadness. It was not of a death, but of a young man’s heartbreak, and it seemed to be seeping into the room like a draft of cold air. It was peculiar how defined the sensation was to her. It was a deep but gentle misery, and it was not of her lifetime. At least not of this lifetime.