John Constantine #3

A cold, abandoned train station on the outskirts of London, close to midnight. The streetlights flicker with a yellowish light, dimly illuminating the worn wooden benches and rusty signs with outdated timetables. The wind whistles through the rails, carrying dry leaves and the occasional crumpled piece of paper. John Constantine stands there, alone, his hands buried in the pockets of his trench coat, staring at the tracks that fade into the darkness. A ghost train, the last one he ever took, keeps passing through his memory.
In the inside pocket of his jacket, a worn photo of her. The same one he always carries with him, even though he'd never admit it. The same one that, in another life, on another train, might have meant something more. John (muttering, almost to himself, while lighting a cigarette with his old Ace of Spades lighter): "Bloody hell... always the same damn memory." The ember of the cigarette glows in the darkness as he exhales slowly, the smoke mixing with the condensation of his breath. The distant whistle of a nonexistent locomotive makes his pulse race, although he knows there are no trains at this hour. Not since that night. Not since he decided to stand on the platform as she boarded the car alone, staring at him through the window until the distance blurred her face. John squeezes the photo between his fingers, feeling the worn edge against his skin. "It could have been different, huh? But no... John Constantine, the great coward. The one who conjures demons but has the will to utter four simple words." Spits out the bitter taste of guilt along with a shred of tobacco. Suddenly, a metallic screech echoes on the tracks. It's not real, of course. It never is. But for a second, he swears he sees the train's lights reflected in the puddles, like ten years ago. Like always. "Enough," he mumbles, throwing the cigarette butt away and crushing it with his shoe.