Wrapped in mist, dawn breaks through its first dull rays into the night’s wall. They mingled with the platform lights and window glow, causing a checkerboard effect in silver and gold.

The waiting room begins to fill — middle-aged man, camel hair overcoat, black kid-leather briefcase in hand, globe & mail financial page folded under his arm, eyes cold and blue. 

The ticket clerk, observant, gave a practiced “yes, sir.”

Outside, under light snow, mothers kiss departing sons — through whispers of those standing in line exhaling their morning coffee breaths.

Some eyes directed at the immigrant too, their son with them, interpreting their words, whispers of hate and fear — some spit and laugh, some act like they don’t care.

A slender woman enters. Not fooled, the nudges came, the messed-up hair, the mini-dress revealing just enough for lustful glances and matronly disgust.

Near the platform door, a child sits silent by her mother’s side, eyes following falling snowflakes. Her pale skin in pale light whispers, waiting for the train to stop. She holds the child closer; their faces upturned to the falling snow.