The Platform of Wrong Destinations

The timetable board lists Berlin, Buenos Aires, and a destination called Aethelgard, a place I have never seen. The air smells of wet wool and distant cinnamon. A salt slick warms the polished floor near the departure sign for Aethelgard. I touch the handle of a small door: bread, yellow crust and soft interior, dusted with flour. The weight of it feels correct, a quarter pound. I mouth the name of the town my grandmother lived in, the one I know I’ve never visited. When I pronounce the name, the sound hangs, then shears away, leaving only the hiss of steam. A man sits across the track, his coat a shade of bruised indigo. He holds a green enamel cup, and we watch the bread door handle listing nothing on its side.