At five oh seven, the great clock in the concourse was three minutes fast, and Maud Delmas had known it since morning.
She rubbed the small crescent scar at the base of her left thumb.
She also knew no one would set it right before Monday. The lift required for the job was out of service at a depot thirty kilometers away, the on-call technician had already exceeded his hours, and three minutes did not stop any train from leaving. They only bothered Maud whenever she looked up.
“You’re going to scare it,” Clara said.
Maud lowered her eyes. Her sister stood by the decommissioned ticket validator, a cup of tea wedged between two fingers and a crumpled paper ticket in her other hand. The ticket had become a small white lump with soft corners. Clara unfolded it, checked the time, folded it again, as though the 6:32 to Lormey might change under the pressure of her knuckles.
“It’s wrong,” Maud replied.
“Who is?”
“The clock.”
Clara followed her gaze to the dial hanging over the concourse. Around them, Valenne-Centrale station was doing what it did every rainy Saturday: holding too many people beneath a roof that amplified every sound. Families clustered in front of the screens, suitcases drew black tracks across the wet tile, an announcement dissolved in the hiss of the automatic doors. At the far end, near track 9, a station employee waved an arm to stop travelers from walking down a stopped escalator.
“See?” Clara said. “This is why we never manage to talk. Even a clock beats me.”
Maud was about to answer when her work phone vibrated.
**West concourse at capacity. Platform 6 clear. Flow decision needed.**
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