The beginning of a possible series of small pieces. Any feedback would be great.

At two fifty-four, he stands there, half-obscured by the signpost, duffel bag the only thing swinging into view. In two weeks, this is all he has managed. In the morning, he studies paperwork in the pale blue room he sleeps in, eats a scone and considers what he'd say to her today, if he could.

At three oh two, he watches her train pull in, pulling himself further into the corner. In two years, she's aged, looking more like her mother everyday. He's disappeared from the crannies of her face, he realizes. She no longer covers her mouth when she laughs, like he used to. He no longer laughs at all; not in these two years.

At three oh five, he leaves the highlight of his day, back to the hotel for another night with his paperwork and no-one else.