WW2 Crossroads

It begins with steam and paper. A winter train station in 1941 is full of noise that wants to sound like certainty: metal wheels, shouted names, a radio voice repeating the same few words until they become a drumbeat. The map on the wall still has unmarked pins, but everyone stands as if the route is already drawn.

The radio says Pearl Harbor. It says Washington, and then it says war. The posters are bright, the ink still glossy, the kind of optimism that only appears when the future is unknown. A clerk stamps forms so fast the ink bleeds. A child sits on a suitcase, feet swinging above the floor as if the whole station is floating.