The Station Lamp

The night porter was told not to extinguish the lamp at the end of the platform. No train stopped there after nine, but he kept it lit through rain and frost.

On his final shift, he carried the lamp into the office to clean it. A woman tapped the window, pale gloves folded over a ticket. He opened the door. The platform was empty.

In the morning, a ticket lay beneath the lamp: one journey, dated thirty years before. On its reverse someone had written, in a careful hand, “Thank you for waiting.”