The Station Master – Part 2: All Clear

The storm blew itself out after seven days.

On the eighth morning, the sky was a clean bright blue. The mountains stood white and gleaming. The line lay open and glittering, rails shining like silver wire along the ledge. A train rounded the far bend, horn echoing across the valley, on time to the second.

Mirjam stood on the platform with a flask of coffee, watching it approach. Florian stood beside her, signal lamp in hand.

"All clear," he said.

"All clear."

They watched the train go, then silence settled over the little halt. Snow dripped from the eaves. A chaffinch hopped on the rail. The valley below was a bowl of light.

"A week," said Mirjam.

"A long week."

"I think it's the best week of my career."

"Mine too." He glanced at her. "Though not for the timetable."

She grinned. He had thawed, over those seven days: he laughed more, hummed under his breath, left small bars of chocolate on her desk. She had moved into the little spare room above the hut, for the storm. Neither of them had mentioned it ending.

"Can I ask you something?" said Florian.

"Yes."

"Would you stay? As dispatcher. I would put in a request."

"I would be honoured." She set down her coffee. "May I kiss you first?"

His ears went red. "Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must dig the north points for a whole winter."

"That is a very romantic threat."

"I am a station master."

She kissed him, quick and warm, her hand against his bearded cheek. He kissed her back, unhurried and tender, tasting of coffee and chocolate. The sun glittered on the snow. The next train whistled in the distance, small and bright.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Mirjam. "Very green."

The Alp Rosa timetable now has a handwritten footnote: Signals clear. Dispatcher and station master are, as of this date, in love.

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