The Phantom On The Train

Such a queer chapter, that one. A short story of reckless youth, autumn sweaters, and warm organized coziness…oddly placed amongst a series of longer stories; stories about much darker, and more brooding things. I can’t help but return there, at least weekly. Was the sun really that bright in the park there? That fountained park, with the train parked on display. Supper in that tiny house up the hill, past the history museum, and brick streets. That tiny house, with the smell of clean linoleum and old books– all together pristine. How the lamp lights twinkled in there, amongst the unusual smells, in the oddly familiar but ultimately strange tiny town, in that little nowhere-corner of the world. How strange to fall into such a place, and to land in the lap of warmth, comfort, safety, and coziness– like a fable, or a moment’s relief in a horror film. I wonder if ever I’ll return there, if ever I’d even be able to find the way. Lost, is it? Forever, perhaps? Like so many memories…