The platform
Mira stood under the platform light with the letter in her coat. Jonah had not written in a week.
She was very tired and the train was late again, which made her feel sad. The train was late again. She leaned on the cold rail and let the night have her.
Somewhere down the line a horn sounded, long, then gone.
A man in a wet coat set his bag down at the far end of the bench and did not look at her. The clock over the ticket window had stopped at ten past nine; nobody had fixed it since spring.
She thought about the last card Jonah sent. The harbour on the front, the ink smudged where the rain had found it. Come when the ferry runs again, it said, and nothing after that.
The rails began to hum before she could see the light.






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