The Departure Board Lists Only Names

The platform tile is damp underfoot. I stand near the edge where the tracks cut the air, watching the departures board. Where train times should be, only names are printed in permanent ink. The air carries the smell of hot metal and deep dust. I unfold the map, paper thin and brittle, carefully unfolded into the shape of a bird. Its wings are folded tight, a perfect crease. A woman across the platform calls out a name. I hear it, and the sound dissipates. The name dissolves in the air, leaving only the faint, metallic scent of the platform. I smooth the map across my thigh. There is no urgency here. The clock face above the ticket booth is stationary, and the quiet settles into the weight of my chest.