Long before he stepped away for good…
Peter left the station doors, slightly tilting under the weight of a large Adidas duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Beads of sweat traced glistening trails down his temples. He glanced around the platform. A row of benches lined the station wall, crowded with passengers waiting for trains or greeting loved ones. On one bench sat an old man in a grey overcoat and a flat cap. Peter walked toward him.
Approaching, he shrugged off his burden, set it between them, and pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his jacket pocket to wipe his face. Only then did he sit, exhaling heavily. A high-speed train clattered past the platform without stopping, its hot gust smelling of iron and dust brushing over Peter’s face, tousling his short hair.
He watched the train’s dwindling tail, then leaned against the bench, resting a hand on his bag. The murmur of the platform resumed as conversations, briefly paused, picked up again.
*”The express service to… now arriving… numbering from the front,”* a woman’s voice crackled indistinctly over the loudspeaker.
*”Did you catch which train?”* the old man asked, turning to Peter.
Peter shook his head. The old man nodded and checked his wristwatch.
*”Third announcement, still no sign of it,”* he sighed. *”Why must station announcements always sound like someone’s speaking through cotton?”*
Peter said nothing, resisting the urge to engage.
*”Off somewhere, then? Traveling heavy, I see.”* The old man persisted.
*”What a detective,”* Peter snorted. *”You’ve got no luggage, so you must be meeting someone.”*
*”Right you are,”* the old man brightened. *”My son. Haven’t seen him in years.”*
Peter exhaled softly. *”I’m leaving mine.”* The words slipped out before he could stop them.
The old man sighed. *”Life, eh? Running away—but you can’t outrun yourself. Those troubles stay in the bag.”* He nodded at the duffel between them.
Peter shot him an irritated glance and turned away.
*”Did the same forty years back,”* the old man continued, unfazed. *”Son was eleven. Haven’t seen him since. Nervous, truth be told.”* His calm voice belied the claim.
*”Doesn’t show,”* Peter muttered.
*”At my age, best ration your emotions,”* the old man said. *”Joy or grief—either could finish you.”*
*”Was your son abroad?”* Peter seized the diversion from his own troubles.
He hadn’t meant for things to unravel. A passing remark from his wife about coming home late had spiraled—the barb about infidelity, though groundless. Words were like birds; once flown, you couldn’t catch them.
He could’ve laughed it off. Instead, he’d stuffed a bag, slammed the door, and stormed to the station. Only now, hearing the old man, did Eddie’s face flash in his mind.
*”My wife was a practical woman,”* the old man mused. *”Not a beauty, but steady. Never thought I’d lose my head, leave her and my boy. Yet here we are.”*
Peter realized the man wasn’t just talking—he was confessing.
*”Had a hernia flare up. Pain near doubled me over. My Martha sent me to hospital. They took me straight to surgery.”*
*”Woke groggy, and there she was—the nurse. White uniform, eyes like cornflowers. An angel, name and all: Lily.”*
*”She touched my arm to give the injection, and I trembled. Fell hard. Spent the night before discharge scheming how to stay. Thought of breaking my own leg.”*
*”Told her I loved her at dawn. Expected a slap. She gave me her number instead.”*
*”Met her with flowers outside the hospital. Handsome back then, I was. Not love—madness. Nearly ended it… till she got pregnant.”*
*”Couldn’t let the child be fatherless. Told Martha everything. She wept, of course. Like you, I packed a bag. Moved in with Lily.”*
*”Divorced Martha, never married Lily. Something went wrong in delivery. She died. Her parents blamed me. Maybe they were right.”*
*”They took the baby. Never even let me see her.”*
*”And your son?”* Peter asked. *”Never forgave you?”*
*”Nor should he’ve. Blamed myself. Tried to drink or freeze myself to death up North. Sent most wages back. Martha returned every penny. Even left a note once—remarried.”*
*”Bought a flat in Manchester eventually. Never sought my boy. Too ashamed. He found me after Martha died.”*
A screech from the loudspeaker cut through. This time, the train pulled in.
Passengers spilled onto the platform. The old man stood, craning his neck. No one approached. He sank back down.
*”Next train, maybe,”* Peter offered.
Another announcement—his train, Platform 2. But as he stood, the old man froze. A man in his fifties approached, a stout woman beside him. The old man fumbled with his cap.
*”Father,”* the newcomer mouthed, sound lost to arriving engines. Peter shouldered his bag and walked away.
At the carriage door, the attendant tapped her foot. *”Boarding or not?”*
A breathless man shoved past with his ticket. Peter hesitated, then turned back. At the station entrance, he crumpled his ticket and tossed it away.
Outside, cabbies called for fares. He took the first.
*”Just arrived? Rushing home?”* the driver asked.
*”Yes. Hurry,”* Peter snapped.
Upstairs, he rang the bell. Eddie flung the door open.
*”Dad! Mum, he’s back!”*
Susan emerged, eyes red. She pressed into his chest.
*”Sorry,”* he managed, throat tight.
No more words came. None were needed.
