Flash fiction, I guess?

Upon a satin pillow, she rests her head, dreaming of her love. He has gone away to find his fortune, hoping to win her father’s approval. He plans to marry her one day, but can not provide for her as her father demands.

There is a farmstead down the road that they could call home, but the cost is high so he must go and find work away from her. He found work with the railway, pounding nails and toting bales. He wrote to her often, talking about the struggles he had faced. He talks of the men who have died and the miles of track that they have laid.

He wrote of the beauty of the land, the trees and valleys, and the rivers that run through them. Rivers of water and rivers of steel cut their way through the mountains and across the plains, both without fail.

A distant whistle has awoken her. The train is down in the valley below making its way to their small town. She rises from her rest to make her way down to see if her love has returned, for his letters stopped coming months ago.

She smooths out the wrinkles of her best dress and makes her way towards the station. The fall leaves tumble from the branches above as she glides between the trees, a faint mist forms in her wake as her passing disturbs the grass. The hem of her dress has grown tattered and dirty over time as it ripples around her.

She pauses in her trek as a small fit of coughing consumes her. She dabs at her lips with the faded lace hanky ignoring the new stains of colour that soak into the fabric. Composing herself she continues on her way.

There is a fallen log trackside upon which she will wait, watching to see if the train will come to a halt and let her love disembark back into her arms. The engine sounds different as it makes its way along those ribbons of steel.

A bright blast of light pierces through the fading autumn twilight as the engine rounds the bend. A glowing eye searching the coming night upon the head of the metallic snake slithering along the tracks. The light passes across the log, cutting through the rising fog. She raises a hand to ward off the beam, her form seems to vanish within the glare.

The passing trainmen glimpse a form in the night and ring the bell in warning. But the train shows no sign of stopping, so she despairs as her love has not returned. Once more she makes her way back home to her place of rest, the small walk and loneliness draining her.

Once home she slips down into her slumber. Her body passes through leaves, grass, roots, and lumber. Her head lays back upon her satin pillow and so six feet under rests the lonesome lady of Avola.