Salted Window Light

A young woman waits for a train that never arrives on a damp, seaside platform.

The air smelled of dead fish and wet rock. Rain slicked the concrete. Grey water ran in dark, muddy lines toward the rails. Elara pulled her thin jacket tight. Wind tore strands of dark hair across her face, stinging her eyes. She looked at the empty track, the metal dull under the weak lamps that buzzed a low, annoying sound.

Another minute passed. The waves hitting the far pier roared, a constant, harsh sound. Elara shifted her weight. Cold seeped through the thin rubber of her boots. She checked the worn ticket again. It was the same. No train. None.

A man stepped out from the shadow of the station building. He was tall, wearing a thick, dark coat. He did not look at her. He walked slowly to the edge of the platform, his steps heavy on the wet stone.

He stopped by the edge, looking out at the rough sea. Elara watched his face. He took a slow breath, the cold air puffing out around him.

“Still waiting?” His voice was low, rough, like stones rolling in water.

Elara pulled her collar up, not looking at him. “It is late.”

He turned his head a little. His eyes were the color of sea glass, dull and deep. “Trains run on time. This line… it forgets.” He looked back at the water. “They always forget.”

He did not wait for an answer. He turned and walked into the dark near the station door. Elara stayed, listening to the sound of his boots on the wet concrete fade. The lamp light blinked once, then went out, making the platform dark. She waited again.