The Station Remembers Salt

The timetable board lists departure times in the year 1903, beneath names that belonged to people who never existed. I trace the chipped green enamel paint near Chicago Union Station. My thumb brushes the edge of the tooth, heavy, bone-white, anchoring it deep in my palm. The air here smells of dust and cold iron. A bench bench section near the tracks is noticeably warm, a heat radiating up from the polished linoleum. I look down. The tiles feel solid, but the pressure of my weight creates a ripple, a brief mirror sheen suggesting a depth of water directly beneath my shoes. The silence is a thick thing, a density that absorbs sound. I shift my grip on the tooth. The platform stretches out, empty, save for the departure signs listing destinations I cannot read.