The Other Platform

 The station was dark, empty. I stood on the edge of the platform looking into the darkness, phone in hand. 

I'd missed the last train. 

No... 

I made it, but I didn't step aboard. 

As I gazed down the dark tunnel, hoping for the return of the engine, I wondered about the chance I'd just missed. 

The place I could be. The chance I might have. 

Even just the chance to make the same choice. 

But it won't happen. The train is gone. 

Pulled away long into the night, and I on this side of town, remain alone. 

I heard my name. I looked across the way. 

Upon the opposite platform, what stood stone pillars and tile instead became the warmth of a blazing hearth, around which my friends and family were gathered. 

My grandparents dancing to slow music. 

My uncle asleep, his chair surrounded in bottles. 

My aunt is cooking, I can smell her brilliant lasagna. 

And my sister, standing at the edge of the platform, watching the fire. 

It is a scene I love, one I'll never see again. 

It's beautiful, it's lovely. 

It's home. 

I knew, of course, that I must be seeing things. So I remained where I was, so as not to break this lovely illusion. 

But then, my sister turned. I saw her face for the first time in years. She beconed me to the other side.

And so, I leapt off my platform.

My world brightened, warmed, beamed.

Everything grew in clarity and beauty.

The only thing I found odd was the sound of a train's horn.