Love has scheduled departures. And people purchase tickets, hoping to catch the next train out. It’s always rush hour at this station. Lovers fill the corridors lined with shops and restaurants.
A feather sweeps by the entrance to Platform 9. I run past it. The stairwell leads me to where a train sits in temporary composure. After a few minutes, I see you boarding that train. You stand with your back turned. The doors close as your nonchalance faces your departure.
An hour passes. Another feather falls, but this time it lands in my hand. A train arrives on the opposite platform. The doors reopen. You leave the train and walk towards me. You say hello, handing me the feather you found by the entrance. But I never gave you mine. It fell to the tracks instead.
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