|The Frankfurt Train Station, a city unto itself|
Looking like a charter member of “Anarchists Anonymous,” he sported a beard, glasses and longish dark hair. I don't even know why I recognized him, but it might have been the uneasy shifting back and forth of his glance. He didn’t notice me as I marched right past him, close enough to touch. I stopped and did a double take, and as I stared after him, with each step he took my disbelief grew with my certainty. I watched him pass the engine and move away from the tracks into the station. His appearance had changed but that didn't matter, because no physical disguise could hide that rolling slightly knock-kneed walk, springy and muscle-bound. I was watching a dead man striding through the Frankfurt train station on a Sunday morning in June.
Forget not to visit the other 7 Suspenseful Sunday writers.