They’d lived in the upstairs of the train station for as long as she could remember. It was an old architectural marvel that always drew a crowd, gaggling over the buttresses and curvature of the cool stone. She’d sit on the roof sometimes, taking in the rich scent of steam and food wares: soft, questionable pretzels and hot coffee brewed far too long. She smiled at the thought of passers-by gazing up at the magnificence that was her home.
Her room was a tiny thing, and the door tilted sideways with the wear of the building. She’d jam it closed and have a little piece of somewhere to call her own. Each day she’d wrestle with the bed sheets to place them properly - properly, as she was wont to do - and each day she’d rack her head on the askew bookshelves that lined her walls. Her books were well-loved and musty with age but she still carefully dusted each one, lingering over the spines, touching the names of forgotten authors from a time since lost.
Often she’d catch herself gasping for breath when the room suddenly seemed to close in upon her, blackening before her very eyes. She would place her hand upon her chest whispering, “Not today.”
On one such occasion when she felt she was losing her sight for good, a man knocked upon her door with a force that knocked the air back into her lungs. Panting, she opened the door and gazed up at her savior.
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