What is this? Trains, planes? Not automobiles. The numbers flash by, yellow and digital. Some things are leaving, some things are boarding, some things are delayed. It's a constant stream of updating opportunities.
Weird. I don't seem to have any luggage with me. Just the clothes I was wearing a few moments ago, before I closed my eyes, before I found myself... here. Perhaps I'm seeing someone else off. And yet. I appear to be alone.
A voice echoes from a loud speaker, hidden somewhere. It fills the empty departure hall with a rasping, automated voice, reminding me not to leave anything unattended.
The board flicks.
Suddenly, as though prompted, I decide to reach into my coat pocket. I remember the last time I did this. I pulled out a little notebook and a yellow pencil. Write, had said the pencil, write what you see. It occurs to me that I haven't done that yet. The pencil is still there. I feel its rubber eraser and the cold metal ribbon that ties it to the smooth octagonal wood. The notebook too - still stiff and spiral-bound.
There's something else. It feels like a long strip of firm paper, just longer than a credit card. It's wrapped around the notebook. Carefully I pull it out from my pocket and hold it between the fingers and thumbs of both hands. I look at it.
It's a ticket.
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