On a chilly morning in the quiet town of Woodford, where the wind sent fallen leaves dancing across the platform, I spotted her at Northgate Station. She stood at the very edge, as if she no longer belonged to this world—wrapped in a scarlet coat that fluttered in the metro’s draft, her hair loosely tied back, white earbuds in place. But it didn’t seem like music played in them—just silence. There was no impatience for the train in her stance, only a deep, frozen sorrow, as if she carried a knowledge the rest of us didn’t, waiting for time to finally catch up to her pain. Her gaze stretched far beyond the tracks, past the crowd, into some distant part of her mind no one else could reach.
I thought of unsent letters, of melodies that only play in memory. She was someone still held by the past—a ghost refusing to let go.
I missed my train that day.
She took the next one.
A week later, I saw her again. Same station, same hour, same cold fluorescent light. She stood there in that scarlet coat, as if it weren’t just clothing but a second skin—a shield from the world. And again, she seemed lost, drifting between reality and dreams. This time, she held a white lily, a single bloom tied with a thin ribbon. It wasn’t just a flower; it was a symbol—of loss, of goodbye, of something final. I wondered if it marked an anniversary, a grief too heavy to speak aloud. The lily didn’t feel like love—it felt like surrender.
This time, I stepped closer. My heart pounded like it knew this moment would change things.
“Excuse me,” I said, “you dropped your ticket.”
A lie, of course. But I just needed her to speak. Or at least to see me.
She turned slowly, like she was returning from somewhere far away. Her eyes met mine, but they were hollow, like she was looking through me at something long gone. A faint nod. Her gaze held the stillness of a lake and the weight of stone—as if she carried a burden no one could share. Then the train doors shut, and she vanished into the tunnel, leaving only the faint scent of lilies behind—bitter, like memory.
After that, I started riding the Tube without purpose. Switching lines, stations, times—just hoping to see her again. Sometimes I caught her glance, sometimes just a fleeting shape through the carriage window. Sometimes, nothing but the empty spot where she should’ve been. But I kept coming back, like a pilgrim chasing a feeling I couldn’t name.
A month later, I finally asked:
“Sorry—we keep crossing paths. Fancy a cuppa?”
She smiled, so quietly it was like she was remembering how.
“I don’t do coffee—my heart can’t take it. But tea? Yeah, alright.”
We slipped into a little tea shop by the station, where the air smelled of ginger and honey. Time moved like treacle there. I learned her name was Eleanor. She’d been a singer once but left the stage three years ago—”after what happened.” I didn’t push. A week later, over chamomile tea and a slice of Victoria sponge, she told me herself.
“I lost my son,” she said, staring into her cup. “He was six. Just… didn’t wake up one morning. I was performing in the opera then, rehearsing a big role. And suddenly I thought—what’s the point? When I can’t even get back the mornings he’d wake me up, asking for his favourite cartoon.”
I stayed silent. Not for lack of words, but because none would’ve been enough. She looked out the window and whispered, “If you stay quiet long enough, you can hear the city holding its breath.”
We met often after that—no plans, no promises. Walked the frost-lined streets of Woodford, sometimes rode the Tube to the very last stop, just sitting side by side. Eleanor wrote letters to her son—never sending them, just keeping them in a notebook. Sometimes she’d read me bits, full of sunlight and grass and warm memories. I listened, too afraid to admit I’d fallen for her. Afraid to break her fragile world.
Then one morning, she wasn’t there. Not on the platform, not on any train. A week passed, then another—she was gone. I kept riding, knowing it was pointless. She’d left like birds do—not because they want to, but because they must.
Two months later, I found a note in my jacket pocket. Her handwriting—neat but light, like her footsteps:
*”You were my companion on this journey. Thank you for the warmth. I’m moving on now. Maybe where I’m going, I’ll learn to laugh again. Don’t look for me. Just remember.”*
I do.
Since then, I’ve really *seen* people on the Tube—their quiet tears, their distant gazes, the smiles they hide in their thoughts. Sometimes, if I catch a flash of scarlet in the crowd, my heart still stutters. Then the quiet returns.
But one day, I smiled. Realised not everyone leaves forever. Some stay with you—not in body, but in the light they leave behind. Not for them, but for you. To keep going.
