The park was wet and empty. The people had gone away again, though at least not on account of snow. Drops filled dips in pavement one by one until they had created something meaningful, something of substance. Plastic bags, torn and shredded, clung to the budding boughs of trees, now lined with the suggestion of a color. Purple. Vermillion. Crimson red. A pot full of yellow daffodils sat on top of a strip of unnaturally green Astroturf, immune to the benefits of rain.
Below ground, the world was still gray, living in perpetual monochrome. Filthy, soot-soaked tiles lined the coved ceilings. Someone sang a song at the end of the platform, their voice carrying the length of the space. I looked up and down the platform at the bodies in motion, people positioning themselves for a place on an arriving train. How much of each other we didn’t know, would never know. The people, like countries, with their own histories and wars, their boundaries and rules of governance. Millions of little countries. The pieces of people.