The Departure Board Always Lists Yesterday

The green enamel cup rests on the marble sill; the ticking watch, hands missing, measures time by sound. I stand on the platform where the air smells of ozone and damp wool, waiting for nothing. Overhead, the brass clocks display five minutes differently than they did moments before. Across the track, a woman I know as my younger sister appears, her jacket the exact shade of the fog, but she is also me, dressed in a coat I wore when I was ten. Her left hand rests on the rail, her fingers stained with rust. She does not look at the departures board, which lists names from cities I cannot pronounce. I trace the grain of the wooden bench with my thumb, feeling the weight of the polished oak. My sister smiles, a quiet smile, and then she walks through a column of hanging timetables, becoming a shadow that weighs less than nothing. I listen to the watch tick, counting the absence of minutes.