Eleven Fifty-Two

The station clock at Merrow had stopped at 11:52, but the train came anyway.

Elena watched it slide out of the fog without a sound — no headlamp, no whistle, only a long line of lit windows and a conductor stepping down onto the empty platform. He checked his pocket watch, then looked straight at her, as though she were late.

Then his eyes went to the coat she was wearing, and for the first time in twenty years, something on that platform looked afraid.