Here’s a story I wrote for Solitary Writers, the group I belong to. It might form the basis for somethng else one day. I hope you enjoy it.

A Railway Station…

A railway station late at night is a desolate place. This one’s no different, with its high metal structure arcing above, solitary pigeons rising to loft there with a fierce flurry of wings.

The air’s bone cold. The old stone walls seep damp. As the wind funnels down the track it moans like a lost soul. There’s no-one on the platform except for a tired guard who doesn’t see me watching from a bench.

The tiny shop is closed, the door chained. A takeaway carton whisks on the breath of a momentary gust and lands with a rattle.

No one is welcome on this platform late at night. It’s best avoided.

But I’m here. I’m waiting for someone. He’ll arrive on the next train.

We haven’t finished our business together, not yet. He told me he was sorry, that it couldn’t be helped, that once he’d met her, he couldn’t think of me the same way again. That he had moved on.

Sorry is an empty word. Easily said. Soon forgotten.

But I haven’t forgotten. I remember details – the way he walked, a careless roll of the shoulders, the way his mouth twisted to the left when he smiled. He used to smile a lot.

I ease myself from the wooden bench and shift to the edge of the platform so I can stare down the track. It narrows into the distance like eternity. The guard walks straight past me again and I notice him shiver. The donkey jacket he huddles inside lets in the cold.

A metallic voice crackles through a speaker: the 11: 46 will arrive soon, stopping at its final destination.

It’s my final destination too.

I lean forward to get a better view. For a moment I think I hear the shudder of wheels, but the only sound is the constant silence that has become hard ice in my spine.

Then it’s there, a dull rattling, and immediately I’ve gone back thirty years, when I stood in the same place waiting for a train, my head crammed with despair like clashing rocks. I had no idea what to do then. But tonight, everything’s as clear as the air.

The train shuffles around the corner, shambling towards the platform, slowing down, and I wonder why my heart isn’t racing. But I‘m calm. Of course I am.

A dozen doors clang open. Passengers clamber out like zombies, singly, in twos. Then I see him. He’s not alone. Her arm is through his, as if he’s a possession. I take a step forward.

He’s older now. His cheeks are sunken. His pouched eyes behind spectacles are moist. He looks unhappy. She’s talking to him but he’s not listening. He’s staring ahead. Of course, he’s remembering.

Her hair is brassy now, her face cemented in an expression of dissatisfaction. She and he may be linked together, but they are separate. Life hasn’t been kind.

I approach him at speed. Of course he doesn’t see me. She’s still chattering to him, but his mind is elsewhere. I’m just a pace away, then I’m level with him, my lips against his ear.

I whisper one word, my name, and I feel him quake.

Then I pass straight through him and I’m on the edge of the platform, making the leap again, crying out, before the darkness of the tunnel and the roaring of the train’s wheels lifts me away.