Being Human: A Chilly December Day at the Station, a Moment of Compassion, and Remembering What Truly Matters

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 10 minViews 3

Staying Human

Mid-December in the town of Littleton was the picture of chill: damp, persistent wind, the faintest powdering of snow just about disguising the mud, and a bus station that felt like a holding pen for time itself. The place smelt of instant coffee from the snack bar, disinfectant, and the faded dreams of a thousand departures. The automatic doors snapped open and shut, letting in waves of people with cheeks flushed by the cold and a new helping of English winter.

Margaret strode briskly through the waiting area, checking the big station clock for the tenth time. She was only passing through: a sudden work trip to a neighbouring town had finished early, and she now faced a tiresome route home with two changes. This was the firstand by far the grimmestof them all.

Her ticket was for the evening service to London. Which left her just over three hours to kill, marinating in the unique blend of dreary English tedium this place had mastered. It had been a decade since her last trip to these parts; now everything seemed smaller, duller, slowed down and utterly unconnected to her usual cosmopolitan rhythm.

Her heels echoed sharply on the mottled linoleum. She looked rather out of place: a camel-coloured wool coat that averaged more than a monthly train season ticket, not a hair out of place even after hours on the road, and a smart leather satchel slung over her shoulder.

Her sideways glance, used to appraising and filtering everything, swept the room: a snack bar attendant scrolling on her phone, an old couple solemnly splitting a cheese roll, a chap in a battered cagoule staring into the void.

She was aware of the staresnothing overtly hostile, just a silent consensus: not-local. And in truth, even she agreed with them. She just had to survive, get through this frozen limbo, and by dawn shed be back in her warm, bright London flat, safely distant from this persistent chill of provincial gloom.

She was scanning for a decent perch when her path was blocked.

A chap, perhaps sixty, maybe a bit olderone of those forgettable, weathered faces. He wore an ancient, but carefully darned jacket and a battered flat cap, which he’d doffed and wrung nervously in his hands despite the terminal’s weak warmth. He didnt so much step out as materialise right in her way, conjured from the damp fug of the waiting room. He spoke in a voice both timid and oddly monotone.

Excuse me, miss Could you tell me, er wheres the water round here?

The question dangled in the airabout as awkward as the encounter. Margaret, barely looking at him, gestured listlessly towards the kiosk with the yawning snack bar girl, where bottles of water stood in plastic ranks behind glass.

Over there at the kiosk, she tossed back, weaving past him, irritation prickling at her. Water. And miss. She could practically feel his turn of phrase dusting off the mothballs. Couldnt he see for himself? It was obvious.

He managed a hushed Thank you, and still didnt move. He just stood there, head bowed, as if bracing himself to take those last steps. That hesitationhis apparent bewilderment even at so simple a taskmade Margaret, already halfway past, glance back at him.

She noticednot the coat, not the age. She saw beads of sweat on his temples, trickling down his cheek despite the chilly air. She saw his fingers white-knuckling his cap and the odd pallor of his lips, his gaze fixed vacantly on the tiles, clearly seeing nothing at all.

Something inside her jolted. Her hurry, her annoyance, her cool detachmentall of it collapsed in a breath, as if a well-defended interior wall had just cracked. No time for thought. Instinct kicked in.

Are you alright? she heard herself ask, her voice suddenly softer, gone was the steely businesslike edge. She no longer skirted past him, but took a small step toward.

He looked up. There was no plea in his eyesonly humiliation, confusion.

My BP, I think… My head’s spinning The words were a mere whisper, his eyelids fluttering like every effort to keep upright cost him dearly.

A split second later, Margaret was in full auto-pilot. She took his arm, careful yet firm.

Come on, dont stand there. Lets sit, just here. Her tone, gentle but authoritative, brooked no argument. She steered him to a bench shed only just been skirting.

She knelt down in front of him without a thought for appearances.

Lean back, alright? Deep breaths. No rush.

Two heartbeats later, she sprang up for the kiosk, returned with bottled water and a plastic cup.

There, sip it, small sips.

With her other hand, she fished a tissue from her coat and blotted his brow without thinking. Her whole being was attuned to his ragged breathingthe flutter of his pulse shed found at his wrist.

Help! Someone, pleasea bit of help here, someones unwell! Her voice now firm, slicing through the bus station hushnot a shriek, but a clear call to arms.

Littletons coach station, home to those with nowhere to hurry, shuddered into action. The old couple responded firstthe woman with a peppermint, the dozy chap from the corner dialling for an ambulance at speed. The snack bar attendant finally abandoned her phone. Over came the othersthe anonymous, background crowd, suddenly a living, breathing support crew.

Margaret stayed crouched beside him, talking quietly, squeezing his icy-cold hand. For that moment, she wasnt a top-tier manager or an outsiderjust a human being present with another soul in need. As it turned out, that was more than sufficient. Much more.

And thenbreaking the spellcame the welcome yelp of sirens, drawing up right outside, accompanied by the thud of doors. Two paramedics in blue jackets emblazoned with red crosses burst in, trailed by a December draft.

Their arrival was the signal: suddenly, everyone stepped back to clear a corridor to the bench. The fuss transformed into silence. Margaret, still at her post, looked up and caught the paramedics eyea weary, but attentive stare.

What happened? asked the paramedic, dropping swiftly to one knee. Her movements were all efficiency.

Margaret reported as crisply as any progress meeting, but with a new fatigue and relief in her tone.

He felt faint, dizzy, sweating, said his blood pressure We gave him water, a peppermint. Hes stable now, I think.

While she spoke, the second medic took the mans blood pressure, then flicked a torch in his eyes. He was alert enough now to answer questions: name, age, medication.

The paramedic nodded to Margaret approvingly. Good thinking, getting water in him. Well take him up to A&E, get him checked over.

They carefully hoisted him to his feet. Unsteady, he clung to the medic but turned to seek Margaret in the shrinking crowd. Their eyes met.

Thank you, lass, he croaked, genuine gratitude shining in his eyesenough to put a lump in anyones throat. You you mightve saved my life.

Margaret managed only a mute nod, all the adrenaline draining away at once. She watched as they led him out, supporting him between them, through the swinging doors to where the ambulance, a squat white box, waited. Icy air blasted in, and someone muttered, Close the bleedin door, theres a draught!

The doors banged shut. The siren began again, fading away. The bus station, little by little, returned to its sullen patience. People drifted back to benches, their slow, shuffling movements falling again into the pattern of aimless waiting.

Margaret stood, gazing at her own hands. The right bore red marks from cinching her bag unwittingly tight. Her flawless hair was wrecked, her coat crumpled and now shamefully grubby from kneeling on the floor.

She made her way to the loos to wash up. The tap water was stinging cold. She eyed her reflection in the cracked mirror: mascara smeared, eyes tired, her once-perfect hair a wild mess. The face she saw looked strangeunused to emotion, but very much alive, lined with anxiety, relief, and something rare: warmth.

She dabbed herself with paper towels and, without a last look, wandered back to the waiting room. Over an hour till her coach.

At the same kiosk, Margaret bought another bottle of waterthis time for herself. She took a sip. Plain, cool, unremarkable. But just then, it felt like the most significant drink she’d ever taken: not just hydration, but a tokena small, human gesture. The sort that occurs the moment you stop seeing others as obstacles or background, and start simply seeing them.

She recalled the faces: of the old couple, the attendant, the weary man who dialled 999. Not attractive by any popular measure, not coolflushed, worried, utterly genuine. Shed never seen truer faces.

Looking in the grubby window, in her creased coat and with that most English expression, concern, she realised she finally recognised herself: not a polished advert, but an honest-to-goodness human. The kind that can hear anothers silence and, moved by it, answer.

Returning to her bench and setting the water down, she saw the small, ordinary kindnesses going on: the snack bar attendant bringing tea to the elderly lady with a stick; the man helping a young mum with her buggy through the door. These little things didnt paint a bleak picture anymore, but a quietly miraculous onehomegrown English decency in action.

Margaret checked her phone. A work chat message: something about a missing spreadsheet tab. Only this morning, it would have seemed urgent. Now, she tapped back: Sort it tomorrow. Itll keep. And switched her phone to silent.

Today, shed remembered a blindingly simple, nearly forgotten lesson. Masks are usefulprofessional, prosperous, untouchable: costumes for lifes various acts. Its fine, necessary even, to wear them. But woe betide if the skin beneath them forgets how to breathe. If you start believing the mask is all there is to you.

Today, in the unlovely chaos of Littleton coach station, hers had split right down the middle. And from that crack spilled out something rare: a capacity to be scared hurt for someone else, to kneel in dirt without a care for appearances, to becomenot Ms. Warren, Head of Departmentbut just a woman who happened to help.

Staying human doesnt mean dispensing with every mask. It means always remembering what lies underneath. And, just sometimesas here, as nowletting it come into the light. If only to lend someone else a hand.

“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Warned Me — “Those clothes belonged to my mother. Why did you pack them up?” my husband asked, his voice suddenly that of a stranger. “We should throw them out. Why keep them, Steve? They take up half the closet, and I need space for the winter duvets and spare pillows. Everything’s a mess,” I replied, all practicality as I cleared his late mother’s neat blouses, skirts, and summer dresses from their hangers. Valerie Ferguson always hung her clothes with care, a habit she’d instilled in her son. Meanwhile, my own wardrobes were chaos — every morning a dive for something to wear, complaining there was nothing suitable, frantically steaming creased jumpers that looked like they’d been chewed up and spat back out by a cow. Only three weeks had passed since Steve laid his mum to rest. Valerie needed help — palliative care by the end — and peace and quiet at home. Stage 4 cancer took her quickly. Steve had brought her to live with us, and she faded in just a month. Now, coming home from work, he found her things dumped in the hallway like rubbish and stood dumbstruck. Was that it? That’s how things were to be — his mum cast aside and forgotten? “Why are you looking at me like Karl Marx at a factory owner?” I shot back. “Don’t touch those things,” Steve hissed through gritted teeth, the blood pounding in his head. “What do we need with all this old junk?” I snapped, losing my temper. “You want to start a living museum for your mother? She’s gone, Steve. You need to accept it! If only you’d shown this much care when she was alive. Maybe if you’d visited more, you’d have known how ill she’d become.” Steve flinched at my words as if struck. “Go. Just go, before I do something I regret,” he managed. I snorted. “Fine. Psycho.” Anyone who dared disagree with me, in my book, always had to be a bit touched. Still in his shoes, Steve marched to the wardrobe in the hall, climbed on a stool, and took down one of those old tartan bags — we had seven from our last house move. Carefully he folded every item of Valerie’s, stacking them neatly. Her coat and a bag of shoes on top. Our three-year-old son bustled around, ‘helping’, tossing his toy tractor in the bag too. At last, Steve fished out a key from the hallway drawer and slipped it in his pocket. “Where are you going, Daddy?” Steve smiled bitterly, hand on the door. “I’ll be back soon, mate. Go to Mummy.” “Wait!” I called from the lounge. “You’re leaving? Where to? What about dinner?” “No thanks. I’ve had enough of how you’ve treated my mum.” “Oh, come off it. Why the drama? You’re going out at this hour?” He was already gone, firing up the car and pulling away, aimlessly following the dull traffic of the North Circular, his mind crowded with grief, everything else — work, holidays, silly memes — shrinking away. Only a single thought trudged across his mind like a great, heavy tortoise: what mattered most — his children, his wife… and his mum. All his regrets poured down: not visiting enough, always distracted, always busy — and his mum never asking for help, never wanting to trouble him. He put calls off, cut conversations short. And now, it was far too late. He stopped at a roadside café, wolfed down something quick, then drove three more hours to his old village. By nightfall, he parked outside his mum’s house — the home of his childhood. Nothing was visible in the darkness. Fumbling with the gate lock by phone light, he saw five missed calls from me. He switched to silent and left it there. The air smelled sweet and thick, heavy with the last of the lilacs, moths fluttering in the darkness. He unlocked the door; the porch lit dimly. By the second door: his mum’s battered slippers, ones he’d gifted years ago — navy blue, with two red bunnies on the toes. He stood still for a moment, staring. Hello, Mum, are you waiting for me? No, she wasn’t. The house smelled of old furniture and damp. The lounge gleamed with a newer sofa he’d bought her, a television, the fridge left open. Nobody lived here now. Her bedroom, small, neat, her bed made with a pyramid of pillows, a white throw. Steve sat on the edge, remembering this was once his room, then his brother’s. His mum had moved her things in after they left. He sat in silence, staring at the wardrobe as if expecting his mother to step out. His vision blurred with tears. He doubled over, face pressed to his knees, and sobbed. All that was left were unsaid words from her last day, memories and a thousand thank-yous that stuck in his throat, too late to utter. “Don’t look at me like that, Steve,” she’d whispered. “I was so happy with you.” He’d wanted to thank her — for his childhood, for sacrifices, for love, for the security she’d given. He’d wanted to say, “Thank you for the safe harbour you made. Thank you, for always bringing me back home, no matter how many mistakes I made.” But he’d sat there, too clumsy for the words, feeling everything he might say sounded grandiose and outdated; our modern age has no language for proper gratitude — only for cynicism and empty words. He slept on top of the made bed, wrapped in a woollen blanket from the chair. He woke at seven. Always seven, no matter what. He fetched the bag from the car. The birches lining the garden across the road shimmered in pale-green spring, like young ladies at a garden party. Steve stood and breathed in the birdsong, the freshness, feeling lucky for having grown up here, not in a concrete block. He stretched and started carefully putting his mum’s clothes back in her wardrobe, one by one, folding, hanging, arranging her shoes below. At last, he stepped back and saw her there, in those same outfits, smiling that soft, motherly smile, wordlessly saying “I love you.” He rested his hand on her dresses, hugging them close, breathing her scent. What to do with them now, he still didn’t know. Finally, he returned to the present and called work, then texted me: “Sorry I got angry. I’ll be home tonight. Love you.” The garden paths burst with daffodils and tulips, and he picked a handful plus some lily-of-the-valley from behind the gooseberry bush — a strange bouquet for the graves. There were three waiting: brother, father, mother. Flowers laid, chocolate for each, and a piece of cheese for his mum — the cheese she’d always asked for from the village shop. Their smiles beamed from the gravestones as he remembered childhood mischief, dawn fishing trips with his dad, his mother’s voice calling his name across the fields. He stood and smoothed the dark soil of his mother’s grave. “Mum, I’m sorry… I should have done more. Life’s so empty now you’re gone, no matter how independent we thought we were. Thank you for everything. You and dad were the best parents. How did you do it? Olya and I… we’re selfish. Thank you, for everything, and you too, little brother.” Heading home along the footpath, nibbling on stalks of fresh grass, Steve ran into an old mate, already drinking and looking worse for wear. “Hey, Steve, back again?” “Yeah, just visiting,” Steve replied. “You ought to look after your mum; she’s a diamond — she won’t be here forever,” he said, brushing past. “Alright, fair enough. Take care, Steve,” the drunk mumbled after him. “Goodbye, mate,” Steve called, not looking back.

Marrying a Disabled Man: A Story Thank you for your support, your likes, your interest and your feedback on my stories, for subscribing, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five cats for all your donations. Please share any stories you’ve enjoyed on social media—authors appreciate it! My daughter came home late from her shift at the trauma clinic where she works as a nurse. She took a long shower and then, wearing her dressing gown, came into the kitchen. “There are some pork chops and pasta in the pan,” I suggested, peering at her face to see what was wrong. “Tired, Lucy? Why the glum mood?” “I’m not eating, I look awful enough as it is—if I gain weight, no one will even glance at me,” Lucy replied gloomily, pouring herself some tea. “Nonsense,” I exclaimed. “You’re perfectly fine—your eyes are clever, your nose and lips quite normal—don’t be so hard on yourself, Lucy.” “It’s just that all my friends have long been married, except me! Only the oddest blokes seem to like me. The ones I fall for don’t even notice me. What’s wrong with me, Mum?” she asked, waiting for an answer. “You just haven’t met your fate yet, that’s all—the time will come,” I tried to reassure her, but Lucy only grew more upset. “Right, well, ‘clever eyes’ because they’re tiny, thin lips and just look at my nose! If we had the money, I’d get plastic surgery, but we’re poor! So I’ve decided I’ll marry someone disabled—there are men at the clinic who got dumped by girlfriends after an accident or injury. What else am I supposed to do? I’m thirty-three, I can’t wait any longer!” “Oh, Lucy, don’t say that—your dad’s never been steady on his feet. I’d hoped my son-in-law would help at the allotment—such a big help for us, or how will we manage?” I blurted out, then rushed to backtrack. “Not that you should marry anyone just for that, Lucy, but not everyone is well-off. Why go for someone disabled? Our neighbour Alex is a decent chap, interested in you for ages—strong and healthy, your children would be too, and…” “Mum, please! Alex can’t keep a job, drinks too much, and we have nothing to talk about!” Lucy protested. “You don’t have to talk with him, I’ll send him to dig up the garden with the cultivator, then we can eat, or send him to the shop. He’s a good lad, diligent—maybe something would work out?” I suggested hopefully. But Lucy just pushed away her tea and stood up. “I’m going to bed, Mum. Seriously, I thought you at least thought of me as a real person, but you, like everyone else, think I’m a freak…” “Lucy, darling, how could you think that?” I called after her, but she just waved me off and closed her bedroom door in my face. She lay awake for ages, thinking of the lad who’d recently arrived at the clinic—he lost his leg below the knee. A piece of masonry had crushed it in a derelict house set for demolition—he’d gone in there for some reason and was trapped until they finally got him out, but his leg was beyond saving. No visitors came for him, and he wasn’t yet thirty. At first, he used to hold Lucy’s hand and look at her with wide, pleading eyes straight after surgery. Then, adjusting to his new reality, he’d just gaze silently at the ceiling. She felt more sorry for him than others—maybe because no one came for him. “You think I’ll ever walk again?” he asked her recently, not looking her way. “Of course you will—everything will heal, you’re young!” she replied firmly. “People always say that. Try living with just one leg—what kind of life is that?” he snapped, turning away from her as though it was her fault. “Why did you go in there anyway?” Lucy shot back, angry now. “It’s your own fault!” “Thought I saw something,” he grumbled. Now, whenever she entered, he kept turned away. Lucy studied him—pale, cold blue eyes, but a lovely face. She was sorry for him. “Pity me, don’t you?” he caught her looking one day. “It’s obvious. People like me are only pitied, never loved.” “Nobody loves people like me, either—even though I have arms and legs. I’m just not right—no one even pities me. Maybe it’d be better off if I’d lost a limb too, then at least I’d get sympathy,” Lucy snapped, tears prickling. That made Misha smile at her—really smile—for the first time. “Are you mad? You’re not ugly at all. Honestly, I look at you and can only envy the man you choose, believe it.” Lucy looked at him, and to her surprise, she believed him. She blurted out what had been on her mind: “If I chose you, would you marry me?” He was silent, so she pouted, “Silent means no—you’re just pretending! Got it!” She stood up to leave, annoyed. Misha hauled himself upright with his elbows as if to chase after her, remembered he couldn’t, and called after her: “Marry me, Lucy, I promise you soon no one will even notice my leg. I’ll recover fast—don’t go, Lucy!” Lucy and Misha She stopped in the corridor, on the verge of tears, but at the same time suddenly felt—he’s the one. It didn’t matter if her nose or eyes weren’t “right”, or if he was missing a leg. They’d found each other—that’s all. Her time had come, just like Mum said… Misha threw himself into rehab with passion. He had a new purpose now—to marry his wonderful girl and walk for their future together. He wanted Lucy to smile, to never feel unwanted again. He needed her, badly—he only wanted to share his life with her. “Have you fallen in love at last, darling?” Mum asked slyly soon after. “Look at you—you’re glowing, after telling me you were ugly.” Lucy didn’t even deny it; she floated everywhere on air. Her greatest wish now was for Misha to walk comfortably and get used to his prosthesis. They spent longer and longer out together, first in the clinic yard, then along snow-swept, New Year-lit streets. “They’ve demolished the old house now—right there, that’s where it happened,” Misha showed her once. “So why’d you go in—what did you see? You never told me,” Lucy remembered. “You’ll laugh—I saw a stray puppy in there, skinny, black with white patches, thought I’d take him home. Didn’t want to live alone,” Misha explained. “There’s a dog over there, all ribs and big, scared eyes,” Lucy pointed. “That’s probably him!” Misha grinned, and sure enough, the dog followed them all the way home, keeping his distance. “At least Lucy’s found herself a handsome young husband, and he’s got his own flat and no mother-in-law attached!” friends joked at her wedding. Lucy’s mum even shed a tear when Misha started calling her “Mum”. He was an orphan, no family at all. But a truly warm soul—and above all, they loved each other. May they be happy. Never mind the allotment—life is bigger than vegetables, and Misha does everything anyway and it all works out! Lucy and Misha live together with their dog, Kuzma—soon to be joined by another little one: they’re expecting a daughter. Never lose hope—or you might miss out and never know your chance at happiness. Life truly is wonderful in its unpredictability.