Night Train

The platform empties between departures, a woman in a yellow coat still watching the track where the train has gone. We pass through towns like afterthoughts— lit windows, someone in a kitchen, the blue flicker of a screen above a sleeping child. The window holds two images at once: the dark countryside pressing in, my face hanging there among the trees. By the tunnel's end, we've crossed whatever line separates the day from the version of ourselves we keep for nights. The conductor punches tickets in the dark, brief lamp, brief proof of passage— then the car swallows her back to shadow.