The 12:37
I stuffed my right hand in my jacket pocket— partly for warmth —but also to pull out my crumpled railway guide.
“Damn it’s late,” I whispered, glaring up at the small clock connected to the large, beige building. It read 12:28 in the morning.
Seeing the time only increased the painful sting in my temples.
Gently pressing the affected areas with my thumb and little finger, I felt some of the pain release.
“12:37 is the next train…” I peered once again at the clock. “I’ve got time.”
WIP
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