The Last Train to Amsterdam

That last time she asked me to leave, she was so adamant and pragmatic that even a real thundering storm couldn't change her mind. It was pouring out there; the lightning was ripping the sky open. Its mighty sound tore apart all ties that bind. Her once warm and caring blue eyes were not only cold, but also insensitive, now blinking mechanical. Her face beamed healthy and innocent, as she wished me a good life.

Standing at her doorstep, already soaking wet, I had less than a half hour to ca...