The announcement echoed twice before anyone understood it. A delay. Ten minutes. Then the murmur returned, the soft, shared impatience of people leaning into their phones, their bags, their thoughts.
Platform Seven smelled of wet concrete and old newspapers. Pigeons walked with authority near the edge, as if the station belonged to them more than to anyone waiting. Trains arrived and left with mechanical indifference, each departure tugging a little at the air.