The Afternoon The Train Of Light Passed Without Us

The transit beam ignited and her reflection slid across the glass ahead of her body and my hand lifted too late to catch either while the platform lights dimmed as if acknowledging something already decided.

The station was carved into pale stone and smelled of dust and charged air. Heat radiated from the beam channel and raised a shimmer that bent edges and softened faces. People stood in neat intervals pretending to be patient. She stood one step beyond the safety line with her pack resting against her boot. I stood behind it where waiting was permitted. The distance was small and absolute. When the beam stabilized it made a sound like a breath held for too long.

She turned once. Not fully. Just enough that I saw the familiar tension at the corner of her mouth. I said her name and it landed somewhere between us and stayed there. The beam pulsed. Her outline brightened. The reflection moved first. Then she did. The light passed. The space she had occupied cooled quickly.

The platform resumed its ordinary rhythm. Announcements repeated. Shoes scuffed. The smell of ozone thinned. I kept my hand raised until the muscles began to ache and then lowered it because pain felt appropriate.

I met Lyra in the archive wing during a maintenance cycle when half the shelves were sealed and the lights were lowered to protect old matter. We moved slowly between stacks of stored light and memory. The air was cool and still. Sound behaved politely.

She worked on stellar cartography reconstructing ancient paths of energy that no longer existed. I assisted with temporal indexing assigning names to routes that time had erased. We shared tables because space was limited. We shared silence because it was abundant.

She traced lines with her fingertip as if reading braille. I watched without meaning to. She noticed of course.

You look like you expect the stars to answer you she said once.

I said maybe they already had and I just missed it.

She smiled then. Not kindly. Curiously.

We took breaks at odd hours when the wing emptied. The lights dimmed automatically and we waited for them to return. The waiting became something we did together. She had a habit of tapping the table twice before standing. I learned the rhythm before I learned why it mattered.

The offer arrived folded into routine notices. Assignment to the light rail observatory riding a beam that skimmed spacetime at the edge of safe measure. Observations would be unparalleled. Return uncertain. Personal continuity not guaranteed. The language was careful and insufficient.

You would move faster than me she said.

Yes.

You would come back wrong she added not unkindly.

Maybe.

She nodded as if that settled something.

We tried to remain ordinary. We failed gently. We walked the station perimeter where the stone warmed under artificial suns. She talked about maps she had not finished. I talked about a childhood memory that did not belong to me anymore. We avoided promises. We avoided touch except when balance required it.

On the last afternoon we stood on the platform watching beams arrive and depart. The light trains moved without hesitation. She adjusted the strap of her pack twice. I recognized the gesture and felt my chest tighten.

Say something she said quietly.

I told her to look for patterns even when they hurt. The words felt thin and cowardly. She accepted them anyway.

The beam ignited. The reflection moved first.

Time along the rail stretched and compressed. I watched stars smear into ribbons. I listened to the hum that settled into my bones. I spoke her name aloud sometimes to keep it from becoming an idea instead of a person. I aged slowly while the universe rearranged itself.

When I returned the station had added levels and lost others. The archive wing smelled the same. The lights dimmed at the same hours. Her table was empty. I tapped it twice without thinking and stopped myself halfway through the third tap.

I asked after her at the registry. The clerk paused.

She relocated years ago he said. Groundside. Northern observatory. Cold region.

The observatory stood on ice that creaked and sang. The air was sharp and clean. The sky felt close. I found her inside a dome warmed just enough to keep instruments alive. Screens glowed with slow moving paths.

She turned when she heard me. Time had marked her openly. Lines at her eyes. Silver threaded through her hair. Her posture still held the same attentive calm.

You came back she said.

I did.

We walked outside where the snow reflected light like memory. She spoke about years spent mapping paths that never repeated. About learning when to stop looking for what would not return. I spoke about the rail and the way light carried me without asking what I wanted.

You will leave again she said.

Yes.

She looked at the sky and breathed.

Then stay until the light changes she said. It does that here. Often.

We stood together as the afternoon shifted toward evening. The sky deepened. Colors moved slowly. Our hands brushed and stayed. The warmth surprised us both.

When I left the next day the ice remembered our footprints briefly before smoothing them away. Back on the station another beam arrived and another departed. I stood behind the line and watched the reflections move first.

The train of light had passed without us once. It did not need to do so again for me to remember exactly how it felt.