By Neel Anil Panicker
The 8: 22 halted, offload some weight, picked up a few, departed.
9:15 followed suit.
People clambered in, hurried out, their gloved hands dragging suitcases and bag, all heading to or heading back from the island, the one the glossy travel brochures highlighted as “Top 50 Places to visit before you die”.
Seated at a corner bench of the lone platform, Stephen watched with a weary nonchalance the merry spectacle of humankind scurry past him to experience Nature’s unadulterated bounties.
A pigeon flew in and rested on the precipice. He turned around and for a brief moment the two locked eyes.
Maybe there was something in his eyes, maybe she read him better than the hordes of backpackers who sped past him without so much as a glance, for, seconds later, the bird emitted a strange sound, and then fluttering her wings, flew away.
After she was gone, Stephen’s gaze hovered around the spot where she sat.
And there he saw__the gloves, rather, a single glove, an off brown near fading ‘left hand fit’ glove.
And with that came she, her memories, like a massive avalanche, lashing and hurling and cutting into every single sinew and nerve, hitting and hurting him relentlessly and mercilessly, until he was finally sucked into the bottomless oceanic pits of sorrow.
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Photo Challenge #215