Untitled, by TofuGirl
Note--this fanfic is not finished. I started it during the spring of 2000, and never got around to finishing it. I welcome any ideas and thoughts! Thanks
The station was empty. It had been lifeless for nearly forty years now, nothing more than a storage shed for the building that had once been its home. A sadness hung about it, as if some great tragedy had occurred there. The air was thick and the halls seemed to weep with loneliness.
As she crept down the hall with her flashlight, she inhaled the pungent smell of dust and sorrow. Once those walls were filled with chatter, friendly laughter echoing through the walls. She looked toward the let, to the office, the tiny room where her parents once shared their hopes and dreams over the low hum of a 1937 Philco radio. Her heart jumped a little as she turned the knob and realized it wasn't locked. She had heard countless stories of the heated conversations and private passions that took place behind this door, and was now a bit frightened to enteras if it should remain empty, a memorial to their love.
The door squeaked a bit as she opened it, and she nearly tripped on a large cardboard box sitting between the desk and the door. She quietly closed the door behind her and knelt down on the cold hard floor. She brushed off almost four decades' worth of dust and bent to read the label, "WENN scripts 1939-1944." She felt her breath escape her as she realized what lay inside this box. But now was not the time. She had to find the letters
The letters were the most important thing now. Nothing else mattered. She had to find them--they were her only link to her mother. Her mother, the strong-willed, vivacious woman who once ran through these hallways in urgent desperation, had died shortly after giving birth to her, her parents' first and only child. Her father soon slipped into a deep depression--drinking constantly, telling tales of his gallant days spent in Europe. Her mother's name was taboo--never uttered in their small New England home. Whenever she would broach the subject of her mother, her father's eyes would turn vapid with longing. The thoughts that consumed him surely tortured him--the memories of her smile, her energy, her
