A honey ray of sunshine emerges at the station, bravely facing freezing licks of wind. In the light, the railway track glints like a shiny candy wrapper in a mass of dust. And above me, the ice of the sky starts to thaw; a sweet Soviet sunrise.

Resting alone in the distance is an abandoned newspaper shop; faded, glossy magazine pages flutter furiously in their racks. My eyes smart, seeing the foreign words blend into a blur.

My gaze is caught by the arrival of a tall, pale woman, with lips that are painted a fire-engine red. She looks wistful, her eyes holding a glassy sheen, and her hands shaking delicately, trying to clutch at her ratty, leopard-print coat. It seems she has stepped straight out of a tragic scene from Anna Karenina.

As she passes, my fingers trace the jagged edges of my ticket. I stare.

What’s that? Soft, forlorn purrs float out from behind a trashcan; a cat. I sigh and think of how everything at this station wears the perfume of sadness.

The train is coming. Fat plumes of steam trail into view, as if God himself has stepped out for a smoke. A dull roar fills the air, crescendoing every second. Rumbling, whistling, smoking, the train rushes by. I blink. I feel as if I am in a painting, and someone has angrily swiped some charcoal on it which momentarily disappears. Thick silence now shrouds the station. It is eerie and beautiful; the orchestra’s final chord that gradually bleeds into nothing.

The bricks of the pillars blush a blemished shade in the glow of the awoken sun. The platform has been gently illuminated, each object having shrugged on a gauzy lace wrap of light. I retreat into my mind as the warmth and stillness coax me into my past.

Another train is approaching. I stare blankly as it shudders into view, my mind having wandered into a kid’s treasure chest of gold-wrapped memories. The train’s sweet, shrill singing slowly untangles my thoughts as it comes to a stop. As the doors squeak open, there is an explosion of cries and screams and laughs and boredom. The people empty out quickly, like sloshing bourbon into a glass. I jostle through the crush, which brims with soft coats and rough bags and sticky-warm hands.

Inside the train, I ensconce myself in the maroon warmth of a just-abandoned chair. A powdered-sugar-and-cookies smell lingers so I take a deep breath. It’s just me and the woman with scarlet lipstick now. The doors close. We drunkenly glide out from the station.

I’m leaving again.