Time

The train rattled through the countryside, asoothing rhythm against the fading light. Ethan traced the window condensation with a finger, swirling his name and then letting it dissipate with a sigh. Time, like the mist clinging to the fields, seemed to blur and stretch. He was a forgotten memory, half-remembered and fading with each passing mile.
The whistle shrieked, tearing him from his reverie. The conductor’s voice, gruff and impersonal, announced the stop. Ethan gathered his meager belongings, a worn knapsack and a guitar case. Stepping off the train, he was met with a crisp autumn breeze and the scent of woodsmoke. A small town, timeworn and quiet, nestled amidst the colourful trees. Maybe, Ethan thought, here, time would lose its relentless grip. Here, he could write a new melody. Start a new song.