Short fiction: The Line

Standing. Eyes on the rough yellow-painted line that runs down the platform from the far end which slopes up at thirty degrees out of rubble and grass and this end that slopes back down again just as the tunnel begins. The demarcation between smooth, pale, cold, grey tarmac and the blistered strip that signals the abrupt fall to the rails. Wednesday. Just after eleven in the morning. Sunny.

Why are you here?

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