Margen
The 7:14 train was never late. He’d been taking it for eleven years, and for eleven years he’d seen her on the platform across the way, waiting for another train, going the opposite direction.
One Tuesday he made up his mind. He ran across the footbridge, down the stairs, reached the platform.
She wasn’t there. In her place, a small plaque: «In memory of those who waited here.» The date was from eleven years ago.