Every time she smiled, she died a little more.
His voice waited, huddled on decrepit platforms in an old grey blanket, peering down the tracks. She thought she heard him through the window, a mocking blur, the stiffly bent vowels a familiar tune, her lips coating half-forgotten words, trembling as the melody rose to find tunnels between nameless stars that hung like abandoned cities in the sky. They had not spoken in years. Not since that train pulled away.
She turned as she heard the key turn in the lock, grabbed her fallen smile, chipped and bent like a pair of well worn spectacles, and let it settle on the bruised bridge of her mouth.
on the fresh snow
in both directions