The coat had been red.

It was not bright. It was the color of dried blood under a winter moon. Maren wore it every day. It was the only thing that fit. Her body had shrunk. The disease was a thief. It stole inches from her legs. It stole years from her face. But the coat stayed.

It hung on her like a ghost.

The wind was howling. The train was late.

She sat on the bench in the waiting room. The room was white. Too white. The plastic seats were cold. She pulled her knees up. The red fabric bunched at her elbows.

"Excuse me."

A man stood over her. He wore a gray suit. The suit was cheap. The fabric looked like dust.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked.

Maren looked up. Her eyes were dry. They had stopped crying weeks ago.

"No," she said. Her voice was a rustle. Like dead leaves.

He sat down. He kept a distance. Six inches. He smelled of coffee. Stale coffee.

"What is that smell?" she asked.

He blinked. "What?"

"The smell. On you."

"I wear cologne. Why?"

"It smells like... metal."

He touched his neck. "Is it a problem?"

"No. Just a question."

He opened his phone. The screen was blue. The light hit his face. He looked tired. He looked like everyone else. Broken in the middle.

The train came in with a screech. It was not the train they wanted. It was the express. It skipped their stop.

They stayed.

"Next one is in twenty minutes," the man said.

"Twenty minutes."

"Yes."

Maren looked at her hands. The coat sleeves were too long. The cuffs covered her knuckles. She pulled them back. The red wool was warm. It was the only warmth she had.

"You look cold," the man said.

"I am."

"Should I get you a blanket?"

"No. Thank you."

He went to the vending machine. The machine hummed. It was a low, angry hum. He came back with a bag of chips. He offered it to her.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He ate a chip. He chewed slowly. The sound was loud. In the silence, it was like breaking a bone.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Home. Usually."

"To where?"

"North. Past the city. The coast."

"The coast."

"You?"

"Further. To the place where the road ends."

He laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "The road ends at the bridge. Then it is water."

"Yes."

"That is not a place. That is a concept."

"It is a place."

He looked at her. Really looked. He did not smile. He did not judge. He just watched.

"You have a strange coat," he said.

"It fits."

"It is very red."

"It was my mother's."

"Your mother wore red?"

"She did."

"And now you wear it."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it is mine."

He was quiet for a moment. He looked at the clock. The second hand moved. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"I have a sister," he said.

Maren nodded. She knew this. She knew he had a sister. She had always known. The knowledge was there, heavy in the air. It was like a stone in her shoe.

"She is sick," he said.

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"I can see it."

He frowned. "I didn't say anything."

"You are saying it. With your face. With your hands."

He looked at his hands. They were still.

"She is in the hospital," he said. "It is bad."

"I know."

"You are strange, lady."

"I am tired."

The next train came. It was a mess. The doors were broken. People were shouting. The conductor was lost.

"We are not going," Maren said.

"We have to."

"No."

"We have to. My sister is dying. I have to be there."

"She is not dying today."

"How do you know?"

"Because the train is not coming."

He stood up. He was tall. He loomed over her. The red coat seemed to shrink.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"I am Maren."

"Maren. Who are you?"

"I am waiting."

"For what?"

"For the right train."

"There is no right train. There is only this one."

He grabbed her arm. His grip was tight. He pulled her up.

"Get on," he said. "Or I will call security."

Maren did not move. She stood still. The red coat flared around her. It looked like a flower. A dark, heavy flower.

"Let go," she said.

"Let go of me?"

"Of my arm."

He let go. He stepped back. His face was red. He was breathing hard.

"You are crazy," he said.

"Perhaps."

"Or you are evil."

The word hung in the air. Evil.

Maren looked at him. She did not flinch.

"Is it?" she asked. "Is it evil?"

"What?"

"To make you wait. To make you feel the time."

He looked at the clock. Ten minutes. The people were pushing. They were shouting. The noise was a wall.

"I have to go," he said.

"You do not have to go. You are afraid to stay."

He stared at her. The fear was there. He could see it in her eyes. It was not anger. It was pity. Or worse. It was knowledge.

He ran.

He ran to the platform. He pushed through the crowd. He found a spot by the door. He looked back.

Maren was still sitting. She was on the bench. The red coat was a splash of color in the gray world. She was watching him.

He boarded the train. The doors closed.

The train moved.

He stood by the window. He watched her shrink. The bench disappeared. The platform disappeared. The station disappeared.

He sat down. He looked at his hands. They were shaking.

Why did she say that?

Evil.

He had used the word. He had thrown it at her. She had caught it. She had held it.

The train sped up. The trees blurred. They were black streaks against the white sky.

He thought of his sister. She was in a bed. The machines beeped. The nurses moved like ghosts. He had left her there. He had left her alone.

He had run to this train. He had run to escape.

But Maren had stopped him.

Had she?

Or had he stopped himself?

He looked at his watch. It was wrong. The time was wrong.

He closed his eyes.

The red coat.

He saw it in his mind. The red wool. The way it hung. The way it fit.

It was not a coat.

It was a warning.

It was a mirror.

He opened his eyes. The train was dark. The lights had flickered off. The power was out.

The passengers were screaming.

The train stopped.

It stopped in the middle of the field. The field was empty. The grass was high. The wind was howling.

The doors opened.

The cold rushed in.

People got off. They ran into the snow. They were confused. They were afraid.

The man got off. He walked into the snow.

He walked for an hour.

He found the bench.

It was the same bench. The white plastic. The cold seat.

Maren was there.

She was sitting. The red coat was on her.

She looked up.

"You are late," she said.

He stopped.

He stood in the snow. His breath was white.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"You are where you started."

"No. I am in the field."

"No. You are in the station. You have always been in the station."

He looked around. The field was gone. The train was gone. The people were gone.

It was the waiting room. The white walls. The clock on the wall.

The clock was ticking.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"I don't understand," he said.

"You do."

Maren stood up.

She was taller than he remembered.

Or he was smaller.

She took off the coat.

She held it out to him.

It was not red anymore.

It was gray.

It was the color of the suit he was wearing.

It was the color of the dust.

"Put it on," she said.

He took the coat. It was heavy. It smelled of metal.

"I have to go to my sister," he said.

"She is waiting."

"Where?"

"Here."

He put on the coat. It fit.

It fit perfectly.

It covered his hands. It covered his face.

He could not see.

He could only feel.

The cold.

The fear.

The red.

The red was gone.

The gray was all there was.

He stood in the white room.

The clock ticked.

He waited.

He waited for the train.

He waited for the end.

He waited for the truth.

The truth was simple.

He was not a brother.

He was a symptom.

The disease had a name.

It was not cancer.

It was guilt.

And guilt was a coat.

You wore it until it wore you out.

Then you gave it to someone else.

Maren disappeared.

The bench was empty.

The clock stopped.

The silence was loud.

The silence was complete.

He stood alone.

In the white room.

In the gray coat.

In the red silence.

He did not run.

He did not scream.

He sat down.

He pulled his knees up.

The gray fabric bunched at his elbows.

It was warm.

It was the only warmth he had.

The wind howled.

The train was late.

It was always late.

It was never coming.

And that was fine.

That was enough.

He closed his eyes.

He breathed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The coat was red.

It had been red.

It was not bright.

It was the color of dried blood under a winter moon.

He wore it every day.

It was the only thing that fit.

His body had not shrunk.

It had not grown.

It was just there.

The disease was not a thief.

It was a mirror.

It showed him who he was.

And who he was, was afraid.

He was afraid of the wait.

He was afraid of the end.

He was afraid of the red.

So he ran.

He ran to the coast.

He ran to the bridge.

He ran to the water.

But the water was dry.

The road did not end.

It looped.

It looped back to the bench.

To the white room.

To the gray coat.

To the silence.

He opened his eyes.

The clock was ticking.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The next train was in twenty minutes.

He looked at his hands.

They were still.

He was still.

He was ready.

He was not ready.

It did not matter.

He sat on the bench.

He waited.

The wind howled.

The train was late.

It was always late.

And he was there.

He was always there.