Emily couldn’t explain why she felt drawn to train stations. Maybe because trains never lingered—they left on time, whether you were ready or not. Or maybe because platforms made it easier to breathe: the noise, the movement, the sea of unfamiliar faces. No one stared too long. No one asked questions. Everything was fleeting, as if life itself here was just a brief layover. There was something comforting in that transience. Here, no one knew who you’d been before dawn. No one asked why your eyes were red or your hands shook.
Three times a week, after her shift at the hospital, she stopped by King’s Cross. She bought tea in a paper cup, picked up a pastry, and sat by the window in the waiting area. Sometimes she just sat there, feeling the warmth of the cup as the only steady thing in her day. Sometimes she scribbled in a notebook—not thoughts, just words, to prove she could still string them into sentences. Sometimes she watched the departures board—not to leave, but to remind herself: you *could*. You could go. You could come back. You could become someone else. Or at least, you could be yourself again—but not the version left behind in the past.
A year ago, her brother vanished. Just walked out of their flat and never returned. No calls. No notes. No CCTV footage. No leads—as if he’d evaporated into thin air. The Met said, “It happens. Men walk away all the time.” They filed the paperwork, nodded, moved on. But she knew—he hadn’t walked away. He’d *disappeared*. Like a switched-off bulb. Instant. No warning. No explanation. As if someone had torn him from her life without leaving so much as a shadow.
Her mother took to bed soon after. Stared at the wall, silent, refusing meals. Her father shut down, spoke through gritted teeth, as if the house had turned foreign. Only Emily remained—clutching photos, inhaling the last traces of his scent in his old jacket, carrying questions no one would answer. The house filled with echoes. Everything that once sounded alive now rang hollow.
For months, she searched: called hospitals, morgues, volunteers. Pinned missing posters to bus stops. Scrutinised the faces of rough sleepers, half hoping one would turn—and it’d be him. Then she stopped. Not because she’d accepted it. She’d just run out of hope to spare. Hope, like a fire, dies too when you stop feeding it. And she realised: the only way to live was to keep breathing. Without purpose. Without certainty. But breathing.
At the station, she first noticed the boy—maybe seven, swimming in an oversized hoodie. He sat against the wall, gnawing on a roll, staring at the floor. His face was pale, lips thin, dark circles under wary eyes. His gaze was careful, like a stray cat’s: tense, guarded. The next day, he was there again. And then every time. She brought him juice, a notebook, a beanie. He never spoke. Just nodded. Sometimes he studied her, as if trying to work out why she bothered. Like he had an alarm inside: *Don’t let anyone too close.*
Two weeks later, he sat beside her. Slowly. Uneasily. The way people do when they’ve forgotten how to be near others.
“Who’d you lose?” he asked, eyes fixed ahead.
Emily startled. First at the question. Then at how he’d known. She sat beside him and stayed quiet a long while. As if afraid to voice what she’d carried for a year.
“My brother. You?”
“Mum. Three years ago. I was asleep. She left—that’s it.”
He said it flatly. Like he was stating how long a film lasted. No pity. No inflection. Just fact. Then he stood and walked off. No goodbye. But not pushing her away. Just—the way people do when they’re used to being overlooked.
After that, they sat together. Mostly in silence. Sometimes he sketched—pencil tucked in the margin of an old newspaper. Sometimes she read—not aloud, but with a quiet focus that made the words feel shared. Sometimes they just watched trains pull away. One after another. Like breaths. Steady, unhurried, as if life itself moved to the rhythm of departures.
Occasionally, he’d ask short questions: “You a doctor?” “You always alone?”—then turn away the moment she answered. Emily didn’t push. Didn’t invade his silence. She recognised the fear in him—the kind that perched like a bird on a wire, ready to flee.
She never asked where he slept. Not because she didn’t care. Because she knew: if he wanted her to, he’d say. And maybe that was trust—sitting close, asking for nothing but presence.
One day, he didn’t come. Or the next. She paced the station, scanning faces the way you do for someone you love—by silhouette, by gait, by something you can’t name. Asked security, showed his photo on her phone. They shrugged. “Lads like him? All got stories.” Said it like they were data, not people.
A week later, she found him. In an underpass. Curled on cardboard, wrapped in the coat she’d given him. Eyes open but glazed. Cheeks pale, lips cracked. He was breathing. Barely. And that sound—ragged, faint—tore through her. Because no one, no matter how strong, should breathe like that alone.
He spent four days in hospital. First unconscious, an IV in his thin arm, the blanket always slipping. Nurses said his fever held, but his heart was stubborn. Emily barely left. Sat by the bed, read to him even when she knew he couldn’t hear. Or maybe he could—just couldn’t reply.
Then he opened his eyes and said, “Thought you wouldn’t come.”
His voice was thin, rough, as if dredged up from somewhere unused. She squeezed his hand—tight, like she was anchoring them both.
“I’ll always come,” she said. “Always. Even if you’re quiet. Even if you don’t call.”
A month later, she filed for temporary guardianship. Not lightly. She wavered, doubted, reread forms, called friends. Watched him asleep on her sofa and wondered if she had the right to decide for two. Then she knew: he was her chance. Not accidental. *Earned*. A chance not just to help, but to matter. Not to fill emptiness—but to *mean* something. He didn’t replace her brother. Wasn’t meant to. But he was the one who now looked at her first thing, saying, “Morning.” Who asked, “You smiled today?” like it mattered.
Two years passed. He was in school now. Lived with her. Carried a backpack with a sandwich and spare notebook. Had a bear-patterned blanket, a chipped favourite mug, and a sketchpad where he sometimes drew trains—or just shaded corners while thinking.
On the first page, he’d written: *Don’t know where you sleep, Mum. But I know where I wake up.* Emily kept that pad like a letter. Reread it. And each time, felt something real return—the kind that stays, even when everything else falls apart.
