Fog off the Marsh

She went up the hill at half past eleven, telling herself it was only to prove there was nothing there. The fog came in off the marsh as she climbed, so thick that the station lamps were only rumours.

The platform was swept clean. A bench, a ticket window with its shutter down, a poster for a seaside town that no longer had a pier. Somewhere down the line, too far to be sure of, something let out a long, low breath of steam.

At 11:52 nothing came. Elena stood alone until the cold reached her bones, then walked back to the inn, and did not notice the fresh footprints on the platform behind her — or that there were two sets.