The clock at the railway station strikes three. A girl in a brown raincoat and with a bag in her hand melts in the shadows of the loggia. Has she been a human once? She stands still, only the coat and her skirt move in an occasional breeze. Like a memory risen from a movie scene.

It is five past three. A pigeon, almost white and busy, flies under the roof and splits the shadows as it disappears into the deeper darkness of the roof structures. Or is it the wind whose wings are sighing?

It is ten past three. The sound of a train breaks the silence folded in shadows and forces the station to materialize. The train stops and the steam cloud dissipates. The sun reflects shapes on the carriages and from them on the flagstones. The girl steps into the train moving only as much as necessary. She looks almost like she could bleed if someone had cut her. She disappears into the dimness of the carriage.

It is quarter past three. The train leaves leaving the station in doubt of its existence in the middle of lights and shadows.