Dusk on a foggy winter night. No one around to see two men clinging to each other on the platform.
“You’ll come back to me?”
A train whistle: the loneliest sound in the world.
Except it was a horn. I looked through my dirty windshield. It was hot summer and clear skies. It wasn’t 1942. It hadn’t been a passenger train. The crossing gates were lifting and it was time to move on.