The Board Listing Names at Gates

The gate area has no number. A beige metal bench holds its weight differently today. I trace the emerald twine connecting the empty plastic terminal chair to the sleeve of my coat; the thread pulls taut, a single, specific filament running under the fluorescent glow. I hold the small, tarnished brass bell. It has no discernible purpose, yet I cup it in both palms and feel the metallic warmth seep into my skin. Suddenly, the piano music starts—a three-chord melody, slightly pitched off. I sing the first verse, then the music swells, and I sing the second verse with it. The voice in the room repeats the pitch, the rhythm, the exact timbre. The thread catches on the corner of the gate wall, listing names beneath the times like a ledger.