The train station is very small. Running alongside a never-ending metal track for a blink of an eye, it holds a few dozen passengers, a collapsed ticket booth, rusty rods and a discarded dog with no name, all under a stained, half-broken glass dome, which was the most beautiful part. Sometimes, the sun would reflect on the shards of glass, shining, or fall to the floor and lay still with the dust trapped inside it.
Every morning, strangers gather here. With their frayed woolen sweaters and old-fashioned fedoras, with their jackets and coats and stained brown neckties, tattered briefcases and unshined shoes, they trickle from the forest into the small shining dome of the station, along with the early warnings of the sun. For a while, they wait.
Every morning, a low, curious hum appears from afar, warning them of the train’s imminent presence. When a dark, swirling cloud appears in the distance, and a cautious red light flashes beneath it, an invisible tension joins the strangers as they stand back from the edge. Briefcases are picked up, benches abandoned, and empty coffee cups discarded.
Each morning, the train comes, entering the shining world like an iron rod thrown in water, its smoke disturbing the still dust under the dome, its horn overpowering the oppressive silence of the forest, speeding past the station, the faces, the briefcases, the coats and neckties. A wind sways the strangers, taking with it some hats as a memento of their brief acquaintance, (disturbing) the sleeping dog’s fur. The cars flash by, turning into the homogenous pattern of a snake’s skin, rattling and hissing until the last one is carried off by the steaming behemoth up front.
As the sound fades and the train slowly disappears into the morning fog, the strangers begin to trickle away, back into the forest, one by one. Soon, their footsteps fade away, and the station is once again empty and silent as the sunshine spills from around the rusted metal bars.
Until the next morning, it remains still.