The Hour She Waited

8:45 The train was late again. Claire looked at his watch and then dropped the empty tracks down, seeing the horizon in pink and gold. He loved waiting in this hour. Then there was a tenderness in the city - the noise of the passengers and the maps of the map before filling the stage.

She sat on a wooden bench worn, book in hand, but not reading. She was not to travel here. She came the most evenings to sit in silence, just as Eliza left every day from July 14, the day Eliza left.

It was considered temporary. A six -month project in New York. He said, "I will come back from winter," he said, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. "We have a thousand more morning." But winter turned into spring, spring in another summer, and the calls decreased. The messages became humble. A well -read letter faded like ink on a well -read letter.

Claire never told anyone that she was still waiting. His friends would have called it a fool, and perhaps it was. But memory was a stubborn thing. It clung to the places - Leela's cafe booth, a small bridge over the Holove Creek, and especially here, the train stations where they first met.

It was raining that day. He dropped his umbrella, and he picked it up with a sheep smile. "Looks like we are bad in the morning," he said. He remembered that the way his jacket smelled like coffee and cedarwood, and he spoke for twenty minutes even after his train left.

The next day, he came back. No tickets, no destination - just to see it again.

That was two years ago.

Tonight, the stage was empty. Even a thick tabi named Station Cat, Fred took shelter under the ticket booth. Claire tightened his cardigan and dust the bench with his palm, standing.