I Cry For A Stranger

I caught the 4.35 from Wrexham this afternoon. It was a peaceful journey - the early autumn sun coming softening through the windows, suggestion of a fine weekend.  I shut my eyes, enjoyed the lull of being carried to the train's gentle beat towards home after a late night last night, a full day today.

As we were drawing into Shrewsbury station, passengers stood up, but the the train stopped awkwardly, only three-quarters of its way along the platform.  We waited for a few minutes, shifted our feet, sat down again, the doors still closed.  The guard came down through the train, obviously in a hurry.  We waited a bit longer.  I suppose we all wondered.  Someone kept pushing the 'open' button on the carriage door.

When the guard reappeared, he looked upset.  He opened the door, asked us to alight.  

"Don't look left," he said.  "Walk straight ahead."  I knew something awful must have happened.   I didn't look.  I wanted to pay that much respect.

I don't know who died, or why.  The Shropshire Star online news has reported him or her simply as a fatality at this stage.  

The sun, the hope of the evening.  A fatality.  A loss.  I'm not sure what to make of my sadness.