This week’s Friday Fictioneers photo shows Union Station, Washington. I’m almost certain I’ve been here, in the late nineties when we took a trip from Philadelphia to Washington. Rochelle says it’s now preserved as a museum. Would it have been a functioning station then? I remember being overwhelmed by the sheer magnificence of the architecture. In the weeks before our visit I’d had my first article published by the Financial Times, and when I saw the familiar pink pages of the paper on sale on the news stands I felt an incredible flush of pride that my words should be read so far away and in such prestigious surroundings. Silly I know. 🙂
Keys turn, security codes bleep and the hall settles into its reverie.
Hours pass, and then slowly approaching, getting louder … the rhythmic clatter of metal on tracks, the hiss of steam followed by squealing brakes and slamming doors.
Shadows emerge from the walls of the museum, footsteps ring out across marble floors. The wraiths gather in groups, embracing in either rapturous greeting or distraught farewell.
The bag-lady rises from her hiding place, and for hours limps amongst the crowds, scanning faces, muttering a name.
But when the sun’s rays reveal dancing dust-motes, she acknowledges defeat.
Tomorrow, surely, she thinks…