Our elementary school uniform was quite short half-pants, even in winter. The hour school let out in November was already quite cold. On the platform across from mine, friends were talking animatedly about something. Each time a freight train passed, it drowned out the echoing laughter for me. I stroked the goosebumps above my knees. Few children were heading west.
The farther the train went, the sparser the passengers became. At the old station building nearest home, I walked in a zigzag through the oddly wide concourse. The sound of shoes echoed. I caught sight of parents, likely there to meet children who commuted by train, lined up in front of the ticket gates. Almost no one else was there. At the doughnut shop front, a uniformed figure with a randoseru on his back was reflected in the glass. On the other side, a parent and child were stuffing small doughnuts into their mouths.
I got off the bus at the usual stop. Through a residential area where I knew no one by sight, I walked along the edge of the sidewalk. Cars hardly ever passed. Inside the randoseru, the pencil case kept bouncing and making a bothersome sound. I named a pattern in the concrete I had newly found.
I turned the key. I switched on the living room light. There were still three hours until Mother came home today, too.