The Hall Where Everything Still Waits
I missed my train. Not because I was delayed—just dawdled. Foolish, frustrating, and, truth be told, achingly hopeless. I stood on the empty platform of Southern Station, smoking for the first time in years—openly, as if I had nothing left to lose—and watched the red taillights vanish into the dark. I inhaled greedily, as though meaning could be found in the smoke, though it had been absent for years. Then it struck me: there was no hurry now. Where I was headed, nothing would change. And home… I didn’t want to go back. Only emptiness waited there. Everything I’d once walked away from.
I wandered along the platform, half hoping to stumble upon another path, another chance, a different turn. But there was nothing—just wet tarmac, murky puddles, and my own reflection staring back. The rain had just begun—fine, cold, barely noticeable. I stepped into the waiting room—old, drafty, cracks tracing the ceiling, the scent of rust and damp and time suspended.
Spring existed only on the calendar. The hall still smelled of winter. The radiators creaked more than they warmed, grime gathered beneath the benches, and a chill seeped from the walls. By the window sat a woman in her forties with a boy, no older than eight. He ate cold pasties from a plastic container, diligently, like it was a task. His school uniform was neat, a coat folded over his lap, a worn satchel at his feet. He chewed intently, wincing—the pasties must have hardened like stone. The woman gazed through the window as if it weren’t there. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, her hands clenched on her knees like someone clinging to their last strength. Her fingers trembled. As if something inside might shatter.
I wouldn’t have noticed them if not for her voice:
“You know he’s not coming back?”
The words came out hollow, as though torn from her. Like pushing out a stone. The boy didn’t react. Just nodded and kept eating. As if he’d heard it before. As if nothing in that sentence was new.
I felt ashamed—not for them, but for myself. For eavesdropping. For leaving someone behind too. I wanted to step back into the rain, freeze, scour myself clean, forget. I stood and moved toward the door, then heard:
“Don’t be angry. He just couldn’t. He’s weak.”
At the word “weak,” her voice faltered, as if only now, saying it aloud, she truly understood. The boy gripped his fork tighter, knuckles whitening. He said nothing.
I didn’t leave. For some reason, I sat nearer to them—not to interfere, but because I had nowhere else to be. The silence between them held more truth than any shout. The woman glanced at me—briefly, without resentment. Just the look of someone exhausted.
“Sorry,” I said. “My train left a bit early.”
She nodded. Her face stayed still as stone. Then the boy suddenly looked up and asked:
“Who left you?”
The question was simple, as if it didn’t require an answer—or demanded one, right here, right now.
“I did,” I said. “I left myself.”
He nodded, as though he understood. Then:
“Where to now?”
“Dunno,” I shrugged. “Here for now. Then—we’ll see.”
The woman stood, carefully, as if her legs were made of cotton.
“Come on, Alfie. Our bus is in twenty.”
The boy wordlessly packed his food, fastened his satchel. They left without looking back. The door clicked shut. They were gone. And I remained. Alone. In that hall where time seemed frozen, where the scent of other lives lingered.
I looked at the bench. A crumpled tissue lay there. I picked it up, tossed it away—as if discarding something I should’ve let go of long ago.
For half an hour, I just sat there. Silent. Then an old man entered—small, in a worn jacket, a folder under his arm. He smelled of menthol and medicine. He sat beside me. Said nothing. We simply sat. Ten minutes.
Then he spoke:
“I come here every day. Got used to it. My wife and I used to meet here. She…” He trailed off, sighed. “Well, she’s gone now. But I still come. Silly, I suppose. But it’s what I know.”
I nodded.
“Did you love her?”
“Yes. Foolishly.”
“There’s no foolish love. Only mistimed,” he said. And added nothing more.
He left, leaving damp footprints behind. I followed. The rain had nearly stopped, just a few sluggish drops on the pavement. Over the tracks, a faint steam rose, as though the station itself was exhaling.
I watched him go—slowly, almost dissolving. Small, fragile, like a figurine the wind could carry off. And suddenly, I knew—I wanted to go home. Not to a house. To myself. To the place where there was still light. Where someone waits, even if you’ve walked away.
I went to the ticket counter and bought a fare.
The train arrived on schedule. Precisely. As if fate had decided not to be late today. And I stepped aboard—calmly, as though finally finding the right direction after so long.
