The train was about to depart, and Victor stepped onto the platform. After a week away for work, he was finally heading home. He found his lower bunk in the carriage and was settling in when he heard heavy breathing behind him. Turning, he saw an elderly woman with a wheeled suitcase that looked more like a backpack, wearing an autumn coat and a colourful scarf, standing there catching her breath.
“Great,” Victor thought, “she’s definitely my bunkmate—probably going to ask to swap for the bottom bunk.”
“Love, I think this is my lower bunk,” the woman said once she’d caught her breath. Sure enough, it was hers. She fussed about, unpacking her things while Victor noticed she must’ve been in her seventies. “Imagine,” he mused, “still travelling at that age. Why not just stay home?”
Finally, she sat on her bunk, resting her wrinkled hands on her knees. Passengers filed in, but no one claimed the upper bunks nearby. Victor resigned himself to a quiet journey with an old woman he’d have nothing to say to.
The train set off, and soon the attendant brought bedding. The woman made her bed neatly before sitting back down and breaking the silence.
“Not used to these hard bunks. At home, I’ve got a proper mattress—this’ll do my back in. Haven’t travelled like this since I was young. Never thought I’d do it again.”
Victor nodded but stayed quiet.
“I’m Margaret Wilkins. And you?”
“Victor.”
“What’s your full name?”
“Victor Matthews. Just Victor’s fine.”
“Oh, alright—you’re young enough for first names. Visiting family?”
“Visiting? No, I’m heading home from a work trip.”
“Ah, home—that’s nice. Me, I’m leaving home at my age.” She fell quiet, staring out the window. Victor thought he saw tears in her eyes, though she wasn’t crying. Guilt prickled him—he’d been so cold to her.
“Are you… going home, or leaving it?” he asked, trying to soften his tone.
“Leaving, love. Just an overnight journey, but it’s still nerve-wracking at my age.”
“Who are you visiting?”
“My daughter.” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.
“You should be happy, not crying.”
“I am happy. Haven’t seen her in five years—thought I never would again.”
“Lost touch, did you?”
“By choice, love. Stubbornness, pride—we could never get along. Raised her alone after her dad left, always clashing. First marriage, she rushed into it to spite me—didn’t last. I scolded instead of comforting her. Spent years at odds. She turned my granddaughter against me too. Then, five years ago, she sold her flat and vanished. I even went to the police—worried sick with her and the little one gone.”
“Then she wrote, saying she was fine, remarried, but told me never to look for her. Carried that guilt for years. Realised I wasn’t blameless either. She’s still my girl.”
“A year ago, another letter came. She told me where she was—divorced again, a grandmother now, asking after my health. I cried all night, then wrote back saying life was empty without them. We talked, made peace. Now her daughter’s had a baby—my great-grandchild. She’s helping raise them, so she asked me to visit. At my age, with my health… who knows how much time I’ve got left?”
Victor stayed quiet, her story weighing on him. He thought of his own mum, who he rarely visited—living in the countryside with his older sister. Always figured his sister would look after her. But now, his chest ached with guilt. His mum missed him.
The journey flew by as they talked. At the station, he helped her off and spotted a woman scanning the crowd anxiously—her daughter. He stepped back as they locked eyes, embraced, and sobbed. The sight choked him up.
Lighting a cigarette outside, he pulled out his phone and dialled his mum. For some reason, he just needed to say: “Mum, I’m back. I’ll visit this weekend.”
Sometimes, a stranger’s story makes you see yourself—and what really matters.
