"No luggage, eh?" the man insisted. "Waiting for someone?"
The boy looked away from the man, away from the platform, into the distance. A few old houses, built right by the tracks, were visible. The once-white paint was now a nondescript shade of brown. Even from a distance, it was visible that no one lived in those houses – the open doors swung backwards and forward in the warm afternoon wind, the window frames like hollow eyes, staring onto the rails.
The man gave up, and looked for a place to sit down. There was a wooden bench on the far side of the platform, and he made his way towards it, limping slightly. His bag rocked in his hand with every step he took. When he reached the bench, he sat down and took out a plastic bag from his battered case. He opened it, and produced a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.
The boy looked from the corner of his eye, watching the man slowly unwrap his sandwich.
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