A winter morning at Alexandre Dumas. Humid and dusty under a ribcage of white tiles, the station feels organic. Its clammy warmth envelops you like an old lady giving a hug while the tunnel at the far end seems relieved to announce each new train, exhaling a gust of hot air every 110 seconds. The beat of the trains against the tracks is a reassuring tattoo that reaches your bones, and the echoes of voices and footsteps is the ringing in your ears. You never want to leave. The tunnel gives a surprised puff, the last you ever hear it give, as you tip forward and hold out your arms for a final embrace.
Circlesunderstreetlights is a writer, editor and translator who's finally got round to writing for herself, rather than for others. Flash fiction and stories are easing her into the process.