The Station Doors Still Cling Shut

The green enamel cup on the sill is colder than it should be. I trace the dust film on the departure board; the names are listed next to times that are not clocks. A folded map, the paper light beige, holds the shape of a robin, its wings sharp. I know I left the velvet pouch, heavy with old brass keys, in the small waiting room just beyond the ticket counter. The air smells of ozone and stale wool.

I step through the archway. The room behind me remains lit by a single bare bulb, though I hear no machinery, no footfalls. The desk chair, scarred pine, is angled away from the empty room. I turn back, my shoulder brushing the doorframe, and the room keeps its geometry, continues its quiet, uninterrupted existence. A single oil stain blooms across the cheap linoleum floor where I stood.