I was at the train station one day. In front of me was a young family of three.
The woman, with her arm curled around the man’s left arm: from her affectionate demeanour, that was probably his wife.
The exuberant little girl was using her father’s right arm as a climbing pole, hanging from it, swinging and giggling.
As I watched, she clambered up over his shoulders and back. Wasn’t that dangerous? The man gave no reaction.
Suddenly, he turned. The jerking movement threw the little girl off. She fell off the platform and onto the tracks.
Screaming, the mother rushed down from the platform to cradle the child.
The father merely watched.
Before I could do anything, the train arrived at the station. It rolled over the woman and her daughter without stopping.
There was not even a scream.
I could hear the sickening, wet crunch of the bones and flesh being ground under the wheels.
Panicking, I pulled out my phone to call emergency services. As I pushed at the buttons with my trembling figures, a man walked past me, towards the train’s opening doors.
It was the father.
On his left was his wife, walking arm in arm. On his right was his daughter, cheerfully hanging onto him.