The Hall Where Everyone Still Waits
I missed my train. Not because I was delayed—just hesitated. Foolish, frustrating, and if I’m honest, unbearably hopeless. I stood on the empty platform of Southern Station, smoking for the first time in years—openly, as though there was nothing left to lose—and watched the red taillights vanish into the dark. I inhaled hungrily, as if meaning could be found in that smoke, long since absent. Then it struck me: there was nowhere left to hurry. Where I was going, nothing would change. And home… I didn’t want to go home. There, only emptiness waited. There, everything I had once walked away from still lingered.
I drifted along the platform, half-hoping another path would appear, another chance, another turn. But there was nothing—just wet asphalt, murky puddles, and my own reflection rippling in them. The rain had only just begun—thin, cold, barely noticeable. I stepped into the waiting room—old, draughty, with cracks in the ceiling and the scent of rust, dampness, and time that had long frozen here.
Spring existed only on the calendar—inside, the air still smelled of winter. The radiators creaked more than they warmed, grime gathered beneath the benches, and cold seeped from the walls. By the window sat a woman in her forties and a boy who looked about eight. He ate cold pasties from a plastic tub, methodically, as if completing a task. His school blazer was neatly folded over his lap, and at his feet lay a worn backpack. He chewed cautiously, wincing—the pasties must have hardened. The woman stared through the glass, not at it. Dark circles under her eyes, hands clasped rigidly in her lap, like someone holding themselves together by sheer will. Her fingers trembled. As if something inside her was about to break.
I wouldn’t have noticed them if not for her voice:
“You know he’s not—coming back?”
The words came out hollow, like she’d clawed them from her own throat. As if forcing 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 myself. For eavesdropping. For being the one who’d walked away. I wanted to step back into the rain, let it chill me to the bone, wash me clean, make me forget. I stood, moved to the door, when I heard:
“Don’t be angry with him. He just couldn’t. He’s weak.”
On the word *weak*, her voice cracked, as if saying it aloud made it real, final. The boy clenched his fork tighter, knuckles white. Silent.
I didn’t leave. For some reason, I sat back down, closer to them. Not to interfere—just because I had nowhere else to be. The quiet between them held more truth than any scream. The woman glanced at me. Briefly, emptily. The look of someone exhausted.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Missed my train. Left a bit early.”
She nodded. Her face stayed still, carved from stone. The boy suddenly looked up and asked,
“Who left you?”
Simple, as if it didn’t need an answer. Or as if it needed one—right here, right now.
“Myself,” I admitted. “I was the one who left.”
He nodded. As if he understood. Then,
“Where to now?”
“Dunno,” I shrugged. “Here, for now. Then—see.”
The woman stood. Shaky, as if her legs were made of cotton.
“Come on, Alfie. Bus in twenty.”
The boy silently packed up his things. They left. Didn’t look back. Just the click of the door—then nothing. They dissolved. And I stayed. Alone. In this hall where time had stopped, 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 away. Like I was discarding some stale part of myself.
For half an hour, I just sat. Quiet. Then an old man shuffled in. Short, worn jacket, a folder under his arm. He smelled of peppermint balm and pharmacies. He sat beside me. Didn’t speak. We just waited. Ten minutes.
Then he said,
“Come here every day. Habit. Used to meet my wife here. She’s…” He exhaled. “Gone now. Still come, though. Silly, isn’t it? But it’s all I know.”
I nodded.
“Was it love?”
“Aye. Foolish, really.”
“No such thing as foolish,” I said. “Just unlucky timing.”
He didn’t answer. Just left, wet footprints trailing behind him. I followed. The rain had nearly stopped. Lazy drops still fell, sluggish on the pavement. Over the tracks, mist rose—like the station itself was breathing out.
I watched him go, slow, dissolving. Small. Fragile. Like a figurine a gust might topple. And suddenly, I knew—I wanted to go home. Not to a house. To myself. To the place where light still lived. Where someone waits, even if you’ve left.
I walked to the ticket booth and bought my fare.
The train arrived on time. Sharp. As if fate had decided not to be late today. And I stepped inside—slow, deliberate—as if, for the first time in years, I’d found the right direction.
