Kansas Depot

September 30, 1871

The wind has a voice tonight—low and sharp, like a blade whispering through the grass. It carries the scent of scorched iron and distant rain, curling around the station like a warning. The train groaned to a halt beneath a sky choked in ash-colored clouds, and with it, something shifted in the marrow of me. A pressure. A silence that listened back.

Abigail stepped down with the children, her Bible pressed so tightly to her chest I feared the spine might snap. Her movements were careful, too careful—as though she’d stepped into a place that recognized her sins. I followed with slow steps, and though the platform was crowded, no one met my eyes. Conversations dulled at our passing, as if the air thickened with each breath we took.

I heard a man mutter the words “salt line” near the edge of the platform, just under his breath, just loud enough. Another murmured something about “cleansing.” They did not look at me. But they felt me.

The sky cracked low in the distance, and Abigail’s head snapped toward it. She reached instinctively for her children, gathering them close. Her gaze met mine for a heartbeat—and in it, I saw more than fear. I saw recognition. Not of me, but of what walks with me.

The depot doors yawned open, and the shadows inside stretched long, like fingers pulling us forward. Something waits here. Something older than steam and track. And we have arrived.