The Most Dangerous Stations Are The Emptiest...

~ This is a short story I wrote last year for my English class.  My teacher loved it, so I hope you enjoy it too!  Let me know what you think :) ~

The funeral had been over for a couple of hours.  She sat on the steps of the altar, alone, a blank expression on her pretty face.  Her make up was streaked and her modest black heels lay a few feet away; they had been kicked off carelessly a few minutes before.

She stared at the casket in the middle of the aisle.  The soft candlelight from the little flames at each of the saints’ statues reflected softly in the shiny veneer of the mahogany and made the brass cross and handles blink at her.  She was looking at it, but wasn’t really seeing it.  Instead, all she could see was a box that held her beloved.  A box that hid his cold, stiff figure, a figure that in her memory would remain soft and warm, as it had been as they had lain together many times beneath the stars, or as he held her to whisper sweet nothings in her ear.  Sweet nothings that as of two days ago, had been silenced.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.  She hadn’t even known he was gone until the previous morning, when, after all of her three phone calls went to message minder and her texts remained unanswered, she had resigned herself to going down to the hotel dining room for breakfast.  He had promised he would be there late the night before.  She was getting worried.  She ordered her coffee and croissant and a newspaper to take her mind off things.  He was probably just delayed.  Nothing unusual about that.  Happened to everyone at some point.

The waiter approached her carrying a tray containing her breakfast and the morning paper under his arm.  He looked sombre.  He gently placed the tray on the table and poured her her coffee.

‘Merci,’ she said.

He then produced a folded piece of paper from the pocket inside his jacket.  ‘Lisez ceci, c'est important.’  He said.  Read this, it’s important.

She looked confused, but took the note from the waiter.  What she read struck ice into her heart.  ‘He is dead,’ the note said, ‘Go home and attend his funeral at the attached address.’  Attached to the note was an address in London, along with a date and time - the following evening.  

The cup she had been holding slipped from her grasp and shattered on the floor with a crash.  A few of the other diners turned around to see what was going on, but she saw none of it, as her gaze was instantly blurred with tears.

‘No!’ she muttered in French, ‘No!  It can’t be!  He can’t be!’

‘Madame,’ the waiter replied, ‘You cannot keep that note, I must destroy it.’

He prised the note from her grasp, but left the address on the table.

‘Go to ‘im,’ the waiter mumbled in her ear, ‘There is a compartment, you will know when you get there...’

The waiter patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and left, removing his uniform jacket as he went.  He flung it behind the concierge desk as he left, so that the real waiter would have it when he awoke.  

Meanwhile, the woman sat still at the table, the shattered remains of china on the floor around her.  She didn’t do anything for a moment, just stared at the address on the plate in front of her.  Minutes passed and many of the patrons in the restaurant turned to stare.  It took her a time to gather herself but when she did, she swept the slip of paper into her bag and almost jumped from the table.  The next thing she knew, she was in her room, flinging her things into her suitcase, hastily pulling her dresses off their hangers and not bothering to fold them.

She was ready to go within minutes.  By the time she closed the door, the room looked as if it had been robbed - everything was a mess where she had searched for the last of her things.