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The StationThe tannoy rings like a muted church bell alerting weary travellers of her arrival. She stops as though to await her standing ovation but does not receive it from the people rushing past her; murmuring on mobile phones, their heals going click clack, click clack against the highly polished surface, echoic to a marching drum. The bell rings again and the bored, blasé voice echoes off the walls; as though trying to make her move. But she does not. Instead she looks up to stare at the majestic arches, welded from metal and built in the glory of the industrial revolution, staring down at her like they knew thThe Station
by ~paralysed-will
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