The Vigil by Scott Pieschel

prompt: nothing yet

The departing locomotive’s whistle echoes across King’s Cross station. Stragglers hurry through the steam creeping across the platform and board the train: businessmen in fedoras, trench coats and briefcases; young women with pleated skirts and pin curls striking out on new careers; soldiers on their way to the countryside for family reunions and the chance to build a life that was crudely interrupted by the war.

Jack moves at a more deliberate pace. At precisely seven o’clock each morning, he makes his way to the bench in the corner of the platform. The flat cap rests 

low on his head. The wool suit sags over his diminishing frame. The dark bags protruding beneath his eyes betray the determination carved into his features. He searches every face that passes.

When the rush of departing commuters clears, I meander towards him, broom in one hand, dustbin in the other. I sweep up the discarded pieces of parchment, cigarette butts and candy wrappers, their sugary sweetness worth its weight in gold after years of rationing.

“Morning, Jack.” My voice barely breaks his focus.

“Hiya, Tom.”

“Nothing yet?”

“Nope. But he’s out there somewhere.”

“Best of luck, old chap.”

His eyes continue to scan the crowd. I pass the broom beneath the bench where he keeps his daily vigil. Two years ago, he received the dreaded letter: “Dear Mr. Sullivan, we regret to inform you that your son, Flight Sergeant Alfred Sullivan, is missing as a result of air operations...”

Fathers of the army boys had closure. Their sons were buried in neat rows. Not the air force boys. Their bombers flew across the Channel into occupied Europe to bring the war to the enemy. There was rarely any news on those who did not return. Those who became prisoners could write, but for the rest, there was nothing to do but wait. They checked the mailbox daily and struggled through sleepless nights, trying to keep hope alive. When the war ended, the search could finally begin. While many have been found, many more are still missing, like Jack’s boy.

The desperation of the families with no closure led to all manner of rumors. Jack fell for the amnesia story. Boys who suffered brain injuries were wandering the continent, remembering nothing of their previous lives. Walking through the station one morning four months ago, Jack swears the face of his son emerged through the crowd, boarding a train for Cambridge. Paralyzed by the initial shock, his attempts to reach him failed. Police investigations proved fruitless. Undeterred, Jack spent every day on his bench, hoping his son would once again pass through the station, and the war can finally be put behind him.

The platform fills again as another train prepares to depart. No one notices Jack. He is ignored like the bomb craters and damaged buildings being restored to their former glory. He keeps his silent vigil, a reminder of those who will never move on.

---

Scott Pieschel is currently serving his fourth and final year as Treasurer on the AWCS Board of Directors. His short stories have previously appeared in Spillwords Press, Esoterica Magazine, and The Prairie Journal. His first non-fiction article, "Canada's Remittance Men int he Great War," is currently in press with Legion Magazine.