There's a certain major train station, a well-known hub of human traffic that appears to be normal as far as anyone is concerned. Around 600 trains arrive and depart every day and none of the passengers are aware of what they drive past on the way in.
Sure there's the short row of graves among the viaduct-esque structures that are swamped with cheap houses in every available inch of space but the city is already famous for its graveyards, why would anyone take the time to try and read yet more tombstones? Even if they happened to catch a glimpse of their own name carved onto stone older than their grandparents, they'd never acknowledge it.
Such is modern life.
They'd never take the time to walk to the far end of the platforms and look into the metal doors that are dotted all along there and all labelled as Staff Only whilst being so enticingly open. Even if they did they'd only see themselves across the tracks staring into an identical door which they would slam shut as their reflection began to turn around.
Nobody wants to meet their reflections eyes anymore and that's a damned shame.
The one thing they would do - will do at some point during their travels there and back - is pet the various statues of wartime children. The bronze is worn down to a perfect shine on their little hands and nametags and their eyes. Nobody touches their eyes but they shine like the sun anyway, the kind of unnerving brightness that finds it way into unsuspecting dreams.
Every touch gives a little of their bronze away, they hope it'll take them home.
Sure there's the short row of graves among the viaduct-esque structures that are swamped with cheap houses in every available inch of space but the city is already famous for its graveyards, why would anyone take the time to try and read yet more tombstones? Even if they happened to catch a glimpse of their own name carved onto stone older than their grandparents, they'd never acknowledge it.
Such is modern life.
They'd never take the time to walk to the far end of the platforms and look into the metal doors that are dotted all along there and all labelled as Staff Only whilst being so enticingly open. Even if they did they'd only see themselves across the tracks staring into an identical door which they would slam shut as their reflection began to turn around.
Nobody wants to meet their reflections eyes anymore and that's a damned shame.
The one thing they would do - will do at some point during their travels there and back - is pet the various statues of wartime children. The bronze is worn down to a perfect shine on their little hands and nametags and their eyes. Nobody touches their eyes but they shine like the sun anyway, the kind of unnerving brightness that finds it way into unsuspecting dreams.
Every touch gives a little of their bronze away, they hope it'll take them home.
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