Station Master McPherson watched from his office doorway as I stepped from the train.
‘Evening, Harry’ he said, as I approached – the casualness of his greeting masking that it was nearly six years since we’d last met.
Outside the station I paused to breathe; to think. Overhead, dark clouds rumbled and lightning flashed as the heavens ripped apart. The familiar, pungent smells of the gas works were everywhere, even in the raindrops.
Across the street, the lace curtains of an upstairs window twitched before falling still.
Could I expect to find forgiveness in this place?
Did I deserve to?
These words form my entry into Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.