Holding Onto Our Humanity Mid-December in the small English town of Newton was bleak and windswept. The snow barely covered the muddy ground. Newton’s coach station, with its ever-present draughts, felt like the last stronghold of frozen time. Here, the air carried the scent of coffee from the snack bar, the sharp tang of disinfectant, and an undercurrent of weary decay. Glass doors banged in the wind, letting in gusts of cold air with each incoming wave of red-cheeked travellers. Margaret hurried through the echoing waiting hall, glancing occasionally at the big station clock. She was only passing through. A short business trip to a neighbouring county had ended ahead of schedule, and now she had to get back home, changing buses twice along the way. This coach station was the first — and by far the dreariest — of the layovers. Her ticket was for the evening coach. Margaret had three hours to fill, and already felt the chilly boredom of the place seeping through the expensive lining of her camel wool coat. She hadn’t been to these parts in a decade, and everything here seemed shrunken, faded, slowed down, and impossibly far from her current cosmopolitan life. Margaret’s heels tapped sharply on the cold tile floor. She looked distinctly out of place — a bright detail in dull surroundings: a stylish coat, hair perfectly set despite the miles she’d travelled, a fine leather satchel across her shoulder. Her discerning gaze flicked across the room: the bored kiosk clerk scrolling on her phone, an elderly couple quietly sharing a roll, a man in a battered jacket staring into space. She sensed the glances — not hostile, simply matter-of-fact: “she doesn’t belong.” And she agreed privately. All she needed to do was endure this pause, get through the time and place like a bad dream. By tomorrow morning, she’d be back in her modern, warm London flat — far from this bone-deep provincial gloom. But just then, her path was blocked by someone. A man — perhaps sixty, maybe older. His face was weathered, unremarkable, the kind you forget at once. He wore a well-mended old parka and held a faded ear-flap hat in his hands, evidently warmed by the shelter. He hadn’t stepped to intercept her; he’d simply appeared in her way, as if conjured from the station’s grey air. He spoke quietly, in a flat, undramatic voice. “Excuse me… miss… do you know where I could… get a cup of water?” The question hung awkwardly, as odd as the moment itself. Margaret, barely glancing, gestured towards the kiosk where the bored clerk watched her phone behind walls of bottled drinks. “Over there. At the kiosk,” she clipped, moving to sidestep him. She felt a little stab of irritation — “a cup of water”, and “miss” — such strange formality. Couldn’t he see for himself? He nodded and mumbled a faint “Thank you…” but didn’t move. He stood there, head bowed, as though summoning strength for the short walk. His hesitation, his helplessness at something so basic, made Margaret, already almost past, glance back just for a second. She saw not his clothes, nor his age. Saw the sweat beading on his temples and trailing down his cheek despite the cold. His fingers clenched and unclenched his hat, lips strangely pale, his stare foggy and unfocused — as though the floor itself was miles away. Something inside her shifted. Her urgency, her annoyance, her sense of superiority crumpled and vanished in an instant, as if some inner wall cracked. She didn’t think. Instinct took over. “Are you alright?” — her own voice sounded unusually gentle, stripped of its usual crispness as she stepped towards him, not around. He looked up. There was no plea there, just embarrassment and confusion. “Blood pressure, maybe. Dizzy…” he whispered, eyelids fluttering as if it took all his strength just to stay upright. In another moment, Margaret was moving on pure reflex. She took his arm — carefully, but firmly. “Don’t stand. Let’s find a seat. There,” she said, her voice steady and decisive, steering him toward the nearest empty bench she’d just meant to pass by. Once seated, she crouched before him without caring about appearances. “Lean back. Breathe slowly. Don’t rush.” She dashed off to the kiosk, returned with a bottle of water and a plastic cup. “Here, small sips.” From her pocket she pulled a tissue and blotted his forehead, focusing on his ragged breath, the faint pulse fluttering under her fingers at his wrist. “Help! Someone, please! We need an ambulance!” Her voice rang out not as a cry of panic, but a clear command. The waiting hall, until that second half-asleep, stirred as if shocked awake. The elderly couple were the first to respond; the woman hurried over with her heart pills. The man who’d been dozing in the far corner woke and dialled 999. Even the kiosk clerk stepped out from behind the counter. Other quiet figures grew visible, drawing in to help. Margaret knelt at the man’s side, speaking quietly, clutching his chilly fingers. In that instant, she was neither city businesswoman nor outsider, but simply another human being — and, for once, that was enough. The moment stretched to silence, then the sound of an ambulance buzzer cut into the air as the doors burst open and two paramedics in bright jackets charged through a blast of December wind. Everyone stepped back, forming a corridor to the bench. The woman paramedic knelt swiftly beside them, her movements brisk and sure. “What happened?” she asked, eyes sharp but kind. Margaret answered as if reporting in a meeting, but now her voice held only exhaustion — and relief. “He felt faint, dizzy, sweating badly. He said it was his blood pressure. We gave him water, some heart pills. He seems stable now.” While she spoke, the other medic checked the man’s readings. Soon he was alert enough to whisper his name, age, medication. The paramedic nodded at Margaret. “You did well. We’ll take it from here, get him checked properly.” With support, the man found his feet, then turned, searching for Margaret among the little crowd. His eyes found hers. “Thank you, love,” he rasped gratefully, emotion tight in his voice. “You may have just saved me.” Speechless, Margaret nodded, feeling an odd emptiness where adrenaline had recently surged. She watched them lead him to the open doors, the ambulance waiting beyond. A draught chilled the room: “Close that door — we’re freezing!” someone grumbled. The door slammed, the siren wailed into the distance, and slowly, reluctantly, the atmosphere dissolved back into the station’s habitual lethargy. People drifted to their benches, movements slowed once again. Margaret stood where she was, looking down at her hands: a red stripe where her bag’s handle had pressed. Her perfectly styled hair now a mess, coat rumpled, the hem smeared from kneeling. She wandered to the ladies’, scrubbed her face under icy water, and peered at her reflection: smeared makeup, tired eyes, wild hair. A face she had almost forgotten — not polished for success, but open, honest, vulnerable with anxiety, care, exhaustion. She dabbed her face, returned to the waiting hall with a new bottle of water — this time, just for herself. The water tasted plain, but for a moment it felt like the most precious thing in the world. Not just a drink, but a connection: simple, human contact formed in the split second when one person ceases to see another as background or a problem and sees — simply — a person. She noticed faces she’d barely seen before: the kiosk lady pouring tea for an old woman with a stick; a man helping a mum lift her pram inside. These little kindnesses, woven together, built not a grey picture, but one quietly glowing with mutual support. Margaret checked her phone. A work group pinged about a report mishap. Only hours ago she’d have dropped everything for such a problem. Now, she replied simply, “Reschedule for tomorrow. It’ll be fine.” Then she muted her notifications. Today, she remembered a simple, forgotten truth. The world asks us to wear masks — professional, successful, untouchable — different roles for different scenes. We must wear them. But it’s dangerous if our skin beneath forgets how to breathe — if we convince ourselves the mask is all that’s real. Today, in a draughty coach station, her mask cracked open. And through the crack, something genuine escaped — the ability to care for a stranger, to crouch on a dirty floor without thinking of her appearance, to be just “the girl who helped” rather than “Ms Lewis, department head.” Holding onto our humanity doesn’t mean rejecting all masks. It means remembering what’s underneath — and sometimes, just sometimes, letting the real you come into the light, if only to reach out a hand.

Remaining Human

Mid-December in the town of Graysford was chill and blustery. A light dusting of snow just about covered the pavements. The grey, draughty coach station seemed to be the last refuge of paused time. Here it smelled of strong tea from the cafeteria, cleaning fluid, and something gently fading. The glass doors slammed in the wind, letting in cold gusts and people with cheeks pink from the cold.

Margaret hurried through the waiting hall, checking the time against the big station clock. She was here only in transit. A short business trip to a neighbouring town had ended early, and now she had to get home with two changes on the way. This coach station was the first and most depressing of them all.

Her ticket was for the evening coach. Now she had three hours to kill, and she felt the bleak monotony of this place seeping even into the lining of her expensive coat. It had been a decade since shed last come to places like this, and everything here felt shrunken, dulled, slowed down, impossibly far removed from her current life.

Her heels echoed across the tiled floora dissonant note. She looked out of place: a sand-coloured, pristine wool overcoat, a neat chignon still untouched despite the long journey, a leather crossbody bag.

Her sharp gaze, accustomed to evaluating and filtering, swept the hall: the kiosk attendant stifling yawns over her mobile, an elderly couple quietly sharing a cheese bap, a man in a battered jacket staring into the middle distance.

She felt the eyes on hernot hostile, just quietly stating: outsider. And inwardly, she agreed. She needed only to wait out this ordeal, pass through this space and hour like a bad dream. By morning shed be in her own warm, luminous London flatfar from this cold that seeped into the bones, far from the aching melancholy of provincial England.

Just then, as she decided where to perch, someone blocked her way.

A man, around sixty, perhaps a little older. Weathered face, thoroughly ordinarythe sort youd never remember. His old, but scrupulously mended coat and a fur-lined cap (which hed removed indoors) hung heavy in his hands. He hadnt stepped in front of her; it was as if hed materialised from the stations grey air. When he spoke, his voice was soft, surprisingly flat and toneless.

Excuse me Miss Would you know where I might get a drink of water?

The question hungawkward, as if the moment itself were off-kilter. Margaret, hardly glancing at him, pointed wordlessly towards the kiosk with its yawning attendant. Bottled water gleamed behind the glass.

Over there. In the kiosk, she tossed back, stepping around him. A sharp, minor irritation pricked her. A drink of water. And missof all things. An English archaism. Couldnt he see for himself? It was obvious.

He nodded, murmured a barely audible thanks”Thank you, miss”but didnt move. He stood, head bowed, as if mustering the strength just to walk those few steps. That hesitation, that helplessness before such a simple act, made Margaretalmost past him alreadypause for a second, gaze lingering.

She saw. Not his coat or his age. But the sweat beading on his temple, inching down his cheek despite the cold; the way his fingers twisted the cap, spasmodically; a strange pallor to his lips and the distant, unfocused look in his eyesstaring at the floor but seeing nothing.

Everything inside her shifted. Her rush, her irritation, her sense of superiorityall crumpled and vanished in a blink, as if her carefully constructed inner world had fractured. No time to think. Pure, ancient instinct took over.

Are you feeling alright? she asked, her own voice soft, uncommonly gentle, the usual steely edge gone. She didnt skirt past him now, she stepped forward.

He raised his eyes to hers. In them, no pleaonly embarrassment, confusion.

Feels like my pressure Dizzy, he whispered, eyelids twitching, as though staying upright required all his will.

Margaret moved without conscious thought. She took his arm, gentle but firm.

Dont stand. Lets have you sit down. Just here, her voice low, commanding. She steered him to the nearest empty bench, the one shed meant to pass by.

Sitting him down, she crouched before himnever mind how she looked.

Lean back. Slow breaths. Take your time.

Then she sprang up, striding to the kiosk. She returned with a bottle of water and a paper cup.

Here, take a sip. Dont rushsmall sips.

With her other hand, she pulled a tissue from her coat pocket, blotting his brow without a second thought. Every fibre of her being focused on this strangerhis uneven breathing, his weak, fluttering pulse that she found in his wrist.

Help! Someone, please! Her voicestrong, clearcut through the stillness. It wasnt a frightened cry, but a call to action. This gentlemans unwell! Please ring for an ambulance!

And the coach stationthis rest stop for the unhurriedsuddenly stirred, came alive. The elderly couple responded first, the woman hurrying over with some tablets. The man whod been dozing in the corner leapt up and dialed 999. The kiosk attendant slipped from behind her counter. Others gatheredpeople whod melted into the background just moments before. Now, they formed a small community, drawn together around this one, sudden emergency.

Margaret, crouched, stayed beside the man, her voice low and soothing, squeezing his cold hand in hers. In that instant, she was no high-flying businesswoman, no oddity. She was simply another human being who happened to be there. And it turned outthat was enough. More than enough.

Then, in the strange lull that followed, fresh sounds crashed in from outsidea clipped siren falling silent at the station doors, the bang as they swung wide. Two paramedics strode in, breath ghosting in the December air, navy jackets emblazoned with red crosses.

The ambulances arrival was a signal; the crowd dissolved, forming a clear path to the bench. The bustle melted into deferential hush. Margaret, still beside the man, looked up. Her eyes met those of the paramedictired, focused.

Whats happened here? the woman asked, kneeling by the patient. Her hands moved with practiced briskness.

Margaret replied as she would at meetingsprecise, but now, her voice held relief, not iron.

He felt faint, light-headed, sweating a lot. Said it was his blood pressure. We gave him some water and a tablet. Hes a bit steadier now.

As she spoke, the other paramedic wrapped a cuff around the mans arm and shone a torch into his eyes. Hed recovered enough to answer their questionsname, age, current medications.

The paramedic nodded at Margaret.

Quick thinking. Water was right. We’ll take him to A&E to get checked and put on a drip.

She helped the man to his feet; he swayed, leaning against her shoulder, and then turned, searching the little crowd for Margaret. His eyes found hers.

Thank you, my dear, he rasped, genuine, welling gratitude tightening her own throat. You mightve saved my life today.

Margaret had no words. She just nodded, falling strangely hollow now that the adrenaline was fading. She watched them help him towards the flung-open doors, towards the waiting white ambulance. Another gust of cold swept the hall; someone muttered, Shut that door, theres a draught!

The door slammed. The siren wailed as the ambulance pulled away. The station gradually, reluctantly, returned to stagnant routine. People made their way back to benches, each movement slipping into limp, familiar fatigue.

Margaret stood where she was, looking at her hands. Her right palm bore red groovesthe mark where shed clutched her bag. Her perfect hair was now hopelessly tousled, coat wrinkled and dirty along the hem from kneeling.

She drifted to the washroom and let icy water scald her skin. In the cracked mirror, she saw herself: mascara smudged, eyes exhausted, hair awry. A face she hadnt seen in years. Not polished by success, but plain, unvarnishedshowing real emotion: anxiety, compassion, emptiness.

She dried her face and, without another glance, made her way back to the waiting area. Over an hour till her coach departed.

At the same kiosk, Margaret bought a bottle of waterfor herself. She took a sip. It was cool, utterly ordinary. Yet, for a moment, it felt like the most essential substance in the world. This wasnt just a drink anymore. It was a connectiona simple, human bond made the minute you chose to see someone as a person, not an obstacle or a backdrop.

And the faces around her, flushed, worried, were not beautifuland yet she had never seen truer faces. They were alive.

And, gazing at her reflection in the grimy station windowrumpled coat, troubled eyesMargaret saw herself, for the first time in years, as real. Not a glossy image, but someone capable of hearing anothers silence, and answering it.

She returned to her bench, sitting the bottle beside her. The same old sluggishness returned to the station, but something had changed. She noticed the details: the tired kiosk attendant bringing tea to the elderly woman with a walking stick; a man lifting a pushchair through the doors for a young mum. Little gestures gathered into a new pictureno longer bleak, but quietly full of the unwritten rules of kindness.

Margaret took out her phone. A work chat notification flashedsomething about a missing number in a report. Hours ago, she would have seen it as urgent. Now she typed, Lets move it to tomorrow. It can wait. And turned her phone to silent.

Today, shed remembered a simple truth. The world needs masksthe mask of the professional, the mask of self-possession, the mask of invulnerability. We wear them as suits for different stages in life. But its dangerous when the skin beneath forgets how to breathe. When we start to believe the mask is all there is.

Today, here in this draughty hall, her mask cracked. And behind it, what broke through was the old, essential thingfear for another. The willingness to kneel on a dirty floor, never mind appearances. The chance, if only for a while, to be a girl who helped, not Miss Edwards, department head.

To remain human doesn’t mean discarding all masks. It means never forgetting whats underneath. And sometimesjust sometimesallowing that fragile, authentic self to step into the light. Even if only to reach out a hand.