The train shudders.

It is a long shudder.

You feel it in your teeth.

In your spine.

The carriage is warm.

Too warm.

The air is thick.

It smells of wet wool.

And old paper.

And coal smoke.

You sit by the window.

The glass is cold.

You do not look out.

You look at your hands.

They are still.

They are pale.

The light is dim.

It is late.

Or early.

Time is a blur.

You are tired.

So tired.

Your wife is here.

She is not here.

She is in your mind.

She is in the seat beside you.

She is not there.

The seat is empty.

The leather is worn.

It holds the shape of a body.

It holds the shape of her.

You know this.

You have known this for years.

You know the weight of absence.

It is heavier than presence.

The train moves.

The rails click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

A rhythm.

A heartbeat.

A slow death.

You are a clerk.

You work at the depot.

You sort the mail.

You stamp the forms.

You sign the ledgers.

You are precise.

You are quiet.

You are invisible.

This is good.

Invisibility is safety.

But safety is cold.

You want warmth.

You want her.

She is gone.

Not dead.

Gone.

She left.

She walked out.

She did not look back.

You did not stop her.

You stood in the hall.

You watched her coat disappear.

The door closed.

The latch clicked.

That was the sound.

The final sound.

You have heard it ever since.

In the wind.

In the trains.

In the silence.

The man across from you wakes.

He is old.

His face is like crumpled paper.

He looks at you.

He does not speak.

He looks at your hands.

You hide them.

You put them under your knees.

Your knees hurt.

The bones ache.

Time is in the bones.

Time is in the joints.

It grinds.

It shifts.

It breaks.

You are forty-five.

You feel eighty.

The train slows.

A station.

Small.

Empty.

The platform is grey.

The sky is grey.

There is no rain.

But it feels like rain.

The man across from you stands.

He is stiff.

He moves slowly.

He carries a bag.

A small bag.

He looks at you again.

He nods.

It is not a nod of greeting.

It is a nod of recognition.

He knows.

He knows what you are.

He knows what you carry.

He walks away.

His shoes scuff on the platform.

Scuff.

Scuff.

Scuff.

He disappears into the fog.

You remain.

The train waits.

The engine coughs.

Smoke curls out.

Black.

Thick.

It rises.

It dissipates.

Like memory.

Like life.

You think of Margaret.

Her name is a stone in your throat.

You swallow it.

It stays.

You remember her voice.

It was soft.

It was rough.

Like sand on glass.

She liked the rain.

She stood by the window.

She watched the water fall.

She said it was clean.

She said it washed things away.

You did not believe her.

You believed in things that stayed.

You believed in the house.

In the garden.

In the routine.

You believed in the stamp.

The red ink.

The clear line.

But the lines blur.

The ink smears.

The paper tears.

You are tearing.

You feel it.

A split in the chest.

A crack in the soul.

It is quiet.

It is painless.

It is just empty.

The train moves again.

The station fades.

The fog thickens.

You are alone.

You are always alone.

But you are not alone.

She is there.

In the air.

In the light.

In the sound of the wheels.

She is in the rhythm.

Click.

Click.

Click.

You close your eyes.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The breath is shallow.

The breath is weak.

You are failing.

Your body is failing.

Your mind is failing.

You are dissolving.

Like smoke.

Like fog.

Like time.

You open your eyes.

The carriage is empty.

The man is gone.

The seat is empty.

The light is fading.

The sun is setting.

Or rising.

You cannot tell.

The world is grey.

The world is flat.

You are flat.

You are a shadow.

A pale shadow.

On the wall.

On the glass.

On the ground.

You look at your hands again.

They are moving.

They are trembling.

You hold them tight.

You press them together.

You try to fix them.

You try to make them whole.

But they are broken.

The joints are swollen.

The skin is thin.

You are old.

You are tired.

You are done.

The train stops.

A final stop.

The brakes squeal.

A high, thin sound.

It hurts.

It is like a scream.

The doors open.

Cold air rushes in.

It bites.

It bites deep.

You stand.

Your legs shake.

You step out.

The platform is empty.

The tracks are dark.

The sky is black.

There is no moon.

There are no stars.

There is only dark.

And cold.

And silence.

You stand there.

You do not move.

You do not know where to go.

You do not know who you are.

You are a man without a name.

A man without a home.

A man without a past.

You are a void.

A hole in the world.

You look at the tracks.

They stretch into the dark.

They are straight.

They are clear.

They are true.

You look at the engine.

It is still.

The smoke is gone.

The heat is gone.

It is just metal.

Just iron.

Just weight.

You feel the weight.

In your chest.

In your bones.

It is heavy.

It is solid.

It is real.

You are real.

You are here.

You are now.

You are the shadow.

You are the silence.

You are the end.

But it is not the end.

It is a beginning.

A strange beginning.

A dark beginning.

You take a step.

You take another step.

You walk.

You walk slowly.

You walk steadily.

You do not look back.

There is nothing to look back at.

There is only forward.

Into the dark.

Into the cold.

Into the unknown.

You walk.

The tracks click under your feet.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The rhythm changes.

It is faster.

It is stronger.

It is yours.

You are not a clerk.

You are not a husband.

You are not a ghost.

You are a walker.

You are a man.

You are free.

The dark swallows you.

The cold embraces you.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are free.