The Track Moves Slow

The green enamel cup sits on the bench, solid, listing names on the polished mahogany—years instead of hours. The tram passes, its iron wheels singing a low frequency I know. I hold the brass key; it is slightly too warm, the metal radiating heat against my palm. A stranger stands across the street, wearing a coat the color of wet slate. Their eyes track me, a recognition that settles on the edge of hearing, a half-formed name on the breath. I look back the way I arrived, toward the corner where the scaffolding was. The alley entrance does not exist. Only granite pavement continues, flat and empty. The tram slows, stopping before the intersection, and the smell of dust and wet wool fills the air. I shift the key in my pocket, the weight shifting the balance of the world.