Departures For Places I Do Not Know

The platform tile is chipped white enamel. Overhead, the digital board lists departures for Porthaven, for the City of Salt, for nowhere at all. Steam, warm and metallic, rises from the tracks, though no train moves. I trace the dust motes on the bench. From the corner molding, a single length of green thread pulls taut, disappearing under the ticket booth. It has the weight of a whisper. I stand here, tasting the specific, sharp scent of salt and wet cedar wood, a place I have never walked. I open my mouth to say the name—Elara—and the sound fails. The syllable catches, vibrating only an instant before dissolving into the ambient hum of the fluorescent light. The thread pulses once.