The Train Station ( Creative Writing )

It was the cold seemingly endless winter of 1947 in Paris , Latin Quarter. . Sheets of snow put the rest of the district in almost complete obscurity; all but steeples and tall spires were invisible, on such a bleak day as this. The railway station was a vast cavity made to look smaller by the hoards of hagglers, travellers, tourists, natives and locals. Beggar boys being whisked from sight and hidden by wardens with preying eyes and superstition written all over them. The wonderful smell of the patisserie on the opposite side of the benches wafted around.Although it was only a railway station it held a certain grandeur, however it was not so now, for that was it in its former glory. A truly different sight beholds me now,creepers and vines reach upward, like the boney fingers of a witch. Corridors with cracked flagstones out of which weeds protrude and moss lingers. Must hangs in the air. Rust continues to corrode the tracks, graffiti encapsulates and engulfs the far wall. Tattered posters show a glimpse of what used to be of the place. Old newspaper flutters in the wind, floating on a cushion of wind. Alcoves show the remains of where shops used to trade.Like a black and white movie no colour was really visible. Some were,vaguely, but most not. Something strange hung in the air: an almost haunted aura. Only smashed windows provided light. The old wooden sleepers lay decaying, riddled with termites and millipedes. Forty years of decline and decay, decisions made, money paid,much to be gained as restoration is to begin, windows replaced, rusty tracks turned shiny again, wood turned concrete as the sleepers were replaced, graffiti became mosaic tiles, must became fragrance and dull became vibrance, grit became shine, and disused became used and indeed much was regained.