This week’s contribution to Friday Fictioneer hosted by Rochelle Wisolf-Fields.
When the whistle blew, the driver pointed at the clock and pleaded with him, “Now, man. Come on.”
In response, he tipped his hat and bowed. “I’ve worked here forty years. Where will I go?”
The steam spewed out of the engine and the wheels rolled.
The last train had gone. The waiting room was empty. They’d all escaped and not a soul remained to hear the coming of the soldiers. Except the stationmaster. He picked up the discarded newspapers warning of the impending invasion and straightened the benches back in line.
Choosing one bench in the sunlight, he sat and waited.