Moving Forward

Every morning, Clara took the 9:12 train. The same one her husband had ridden

to work before the accident. She sat in his old seat, by the window,

coffee in hand, pretending he’d just stepped out for a moment. The rhythm of the

train was familiar and comforting. She could almost hear his voice in the rattle of the

tracks, the whisper of the wheels on steel. Grief had become her companion,

punctual and quiet. One gray morning, a man about her age boarded and sat across from

her. He carried a worn copy of The Great Gatsby. The same edition

her husband used to read. When he caught her staring, he smiled.