The hall where everything still waits
I missed my train. Not because I was late—just dawdled. Stupid, annoying, and if I’m honest, utterly hopeless. I stood on the empty platform at Southern Station, smoking for the first time in years—openly, like I had nothing left to lose—and watched the red tail-lights of the train disappear into the dark. I smoked hungrily, as if the fumes held some meaning I’d been missing. Then it hit me: there was no rush anymore. Where I was headed, nothing would change. And home… I didn’t want to go home. Just emptiness there. Everything I’d walked away from.
I wandered along the platform like I might stumble on another path, another chance, another turn. But there was nothing—just wet tarmac, murky puddles, and my own reflection in them. The rain was just starting—fine, cold, barely there. I stepped into the waiting room—old, draughty, cracks in the ceiling, the smell of rust, damp, and time standing still.
Spring only existed on the calendar—the hall still smelled of winter. The radiators creaked more than they warmed, dirt gathered under the benches, and the walls breathed cold. By the window sat a woman, maybe forty, with a boy around eight. He was eating cold pasties from a plastic box, carefully, like it was a task. School uniform under a coat folded neatly on his lap. A worn-out backpack at his feet. He chewed with a frown—pasties gone hard. The woman stared through the window. Dark circles under her eyes, hands clasped on her knees like she was holding herself together. Fingers trembling. Like something inside might snap.
I wouldn’t have noticed them if not for her voice:
“You know he’s not coming back, right?”
The words came out hollow, like she’d clawed them from her chest. Like spitting out a stone. The boy didn’t react. Just nodded and kept eating. Like he’d heard it before. Like there was nothing new in it.
I felt ashamed. Not for them—for me. For overhearing. For being the one who’d left someone, too. I wanted to step back into the rain, freeze, scrub myself clean. I stood, moved toward the door, then heard:
“Don’t be angry at him. He just couldn’t. He’s weak.”
Her voice cracked on “weak,” like saying it aloud made it real. The boy gripped his fork tighter. Knuckles white. He stayed silent.
I didn’t leave. For some reason, I came back, sat closer. Not to interfere—just didn’t know where else to be. The quiet between them held more truth than any shouting. The woman glanced at me. Brief, no anger. Just tired.
“Sorry,” I said. “My train left a bit early.”
She nodded. Face still as stone. The boy looked up suddenly and asked:
“Who left you?”
Simple, like it didn’t need an answer. Or like it did—right here, right now.
“Me,” I said. “I left.”
He nodded. Like he got it. Then:
“Where now?”
“Dunno.” I shrugged. “Here for now. Then… see.”
The woman stood. Slowly, like her legs were made of cotton.
“Come on, Jake. Our bus is in twenty.”
The boy packed up without a word. They left. Didn’t look back. Just the click of the door—then gone. Like they’d never been there. And I stayed. Alone. In that hall where time froze, where the smell of other lives hung in the air.
I looked at the bench. A crumpled tissue lay there. I picked it up, tossed it. Like throwing away something I should’ve let go of long ago.
I sat for half an hour. Silent. Then an old man walked in. Small, worn jacket, a folder under his arm. Smelled of mint ointment and medicine. He sat beside me. Didn’t speak. Just sat. Ten minutes.
Then he said:
“I come here every day. Out of habit. Used to meet my wife here. She…” He sighed. “Gone now. But I still come. Probably daft. But it’s all I know.”
I nodded.
“Did you love her?”
“Yeah. Stupidly.”
“Love’s never stupid. Just… mistimed,” he said. Then nothing else.
He left, wet footprints on the floor. I followed. The rain had almost stopped. Lazy drops hit the tarmac. Steam rose over the tracks, like the station itself was breathing.
I watched him walk away—slow, fading. Small, fragile, like a figure you could blow over with a breath. And suddenly, I knew—I wanted to go home. Not to a house. To myself. To the place where there’s still light. Where someone waits, even if you walked away.
I went to the ticket counter and bought a fare.
The train arrived right on time. Sharp. Like fate decided not to be late today. And I stepped on—slow, like I’d finally found the right direction after so long.
