The Train That Stopped at San Lucido

The train had been following the river for so long that the sound of water and the sound of wheels had become almost the same sound. In the dark window, Elias could see the faint reflection of his reading lamp, the brass latch above the door, and now and then a pale length of river bending away beneath the mountains.

San Lucido was not printed in the timetable. The conductor spoke its name softly as he passed: a short stop, he said, for water and a parcel of letters. Outside stood a platform no longer than two carriages, a wooden bench, and a station clock that appeared to be considering the hour rather than declaring it.

Elias stepped down simply to stretch his legs. Above the station, a cobbled lane climbed between dark houses. Most windows were unlit. One held the square amber glow of a kitchen where someone had left a loaf beneath a cloth. Farther uphill, three plane trees moved a little in the night breeze.

There was no reason to hurry. The parcel of letters was still being carried from a blue cart. Elias walked to the end of the platform and looked across the valley. Tiny lamps rested along the road on the opposite slope, each one far enough from the next to leave a comfortable darkness between them.

When he returned to the carriage, the blanket on his seat was still folded as he had left it. The train moved again without a whistle. San Lucido slipped behind the curtain, then the river returned, and then there was only the lamp, the low movement of the carriage, and the thought of a quiet lane continuing uphill without needing him to know where it ended.