His mother was at the corner, or would be by first light, and would stand there to the end whether or not there was a shoulder beside hers. To arrive after, to stand at a heap when the standing that mattered was already done—he could make no sense of it. So he stopped here.
The way home was shorter for being known: the train to his corner, the five minutes’ walk, the key back across the landing. The tree at the corner stood in new leaf.
It was an evening like the evenings when there had been no going—the kettle, the record where he had left it. From the outside nothing marked it.
The 4:15 stayed on the board and left with the seat empty.
At first light the phone lay on the table, face up. He made no call, and none came.
Somewhere on the far side the machines started, and did not carry this far.