**Late Happiness**
Boris had been wandering through the unfamiliar bustle of a big city before finally arriving at the train station. His feet ached miserably, and his mood was foul. He’d been so eager to come here—never imagined he’d be leaving like this. Guilty of nothing, yet slinking away like a scolded cat.
He spotted an empty bench in the waiting area and sank onto it, sighing. *Just a few minutes to catch my breath, then I’ll figure out the ticket. Five more won’t change anything. At least I didn’t book a return in advance. Thought I’d stay a week… Ah, well.*
When his legs felt less like lead, he hoisted his absurdly heavy duffel bag onto his shoulder and trudged to the ticket counters. As he queued, he watched the station’s chaotic ballet and wondered what he’d do if there were no seats left. But the clerk handed him a ticket—albeit with a three-hour wait. No matter. The main thing was, he was going home.
Tucking the ticket and his passport into his jacket, Boris glanced back—his bench was already taken. He wandered outside, where more benches lined the station wall. A sleek express train idled at one platform, its digital display flashing departure times. Everyone was already aboard; the benches here were empty.
The air was a cocktail of creosote, engine grease, cigarette smoke, and the unmistakable musk of unwashed travelers. Even the breeze couldn’t freshen it. Stations like this saw thousands daily—drifters, drunks, and everyone in between.
Boris claimed a bench with a clear view of the boards and settled in to wait. His mind replayed the conversation with Galina’s grandson, belatedly crafting perfect retorts. He’d frozen then. Now, the words came too late.
“Mind if I sit?” A young man in a crisp suit, wheeling a small suitcase, stood beside him.
“Plenty of room,” Boris said, shifting slightly despite the space. He noticed the other benches were filling too.
The man sat at the far end, loosened his tie, and nudged his luggage aside. “Business trip?” Boris asked, craving conversation, any human voice.
“Going home from one,” the man muttered, eyeing him briefly.
“Same here,” Boris sighed.
“*You* were on business?” Skepticism dripped from the question.
“Visiting. Meant to stay longer. Didn’t work out.” Boris dropped his gaze.
“Got kicked out?” The man’s tone softened.
“Something like that. Now I’m waiting for the Edinburgh train. You?”
“Bad luck for both of us—long wait. I had to leave early too. Changed my ticket.”
“What carriage?” Boris asked.
“Eleventh.”
“Same as me! Not in compartment five, by chance?”
The man’s eyebrows shot up. He fished out his ticket, checked, then nodded. Slapped his knees. “Blimey. Just bought yours?”
“Minutes ago.”
“I was supposed to leave in two days, but my wife called. Our daughter’s ill. Said she’s too scared to even say the diagnosis, just wept. Had to cut the trip short.”
“Plane’d be faster,” Boris pointed out.
“Terrified of flying. Trains are safer.”
Just then, the man’s phone rang. He answered, and Boris politely turned away.
“Hi. Yeah, at the station… Got the ticket… I hoped so too… Miss you. Don’t cry, I’ll try to swing by…” He listened, staring blankly. “Okay, I’ll call if anything changes. Love you. Bye.” He hung up, looking gloomier. Silence stretched between them.
“Don’t pretend you don’t get it,” the man suddenly said. “Don’t judge me, old man. You don’t know the half of it.”
“Not judging. Not my business,” Boris said.
“Damn right. I’d tear anyone apart for my girl. But my wife… Fell for her like a idiot teenager. Ever been there?” He turned, waiting.
“Course. But never cheated. Married means responsibilities. What if *she* strayed? How’d you live with that?” Boris shrugged. “So the ‘business trips’ are a cover?”
“Sharp. Every six months, I come here. Breathe. Then I can go back.” His gaze fogged over.
“How old’s your daughter?”
“Twelve. And you? Kids kick you out?” The jab was deliberate.
“My son’s in London with his family. Always begging me to visit. Why? They’ve their own lives. I won’t intrude.”
“Sensible,” the man nodded.
“Wife died three years back. Married her to spite my first love. Then when she was gone… Thought I’d follow. Couldn’t stand being alone. Maybe I *did* love her—just didn’t know it. Love’s funny that way. But I manage. Don’t poke the wound, and it hurts less.”
“Visiting family, then?”
Funny how others’ misery makes your own seem smaller.
“No. Just the closest person alive.”
“Go on. We’ve three hours. Name’s Oliver.” He offered a hand.
“Boris.” They shook.
“Listen—my Alina packed roast chicken, pies. Cooks like a dream. Fancy a beer run?” Oliver asked, as if they were old mates.
“Don’t drink. Not hungry either. Help yourself.”
“Fair. Talk, then.” Oliver shifted, crossing his legs.
“What’s to tell?” Boris began. “Fancied a girl at school. Lost my head every time I saw her. But she never noticed. Too scared to confess. Joined the army—actually considered deserting, I was so jealous.” He chuckled bitterly. “She married while I was gone. My *best mate*. Found out after. They already had a daughter.”
“*Yours?*” Oliver leaned in.
“Never even kissed her. Loved her from afar.” Boris glared. “Suffered for years. Avoided their street. Thought marrying’d fix it. Ha.”
“Valerie was a good wife. Knew I didn’t love her, but tried anyway. Didn’t deserve her. Mum adored her. But the heart wants what it wants. Couldn’t forget Grace. Even considered moving cities.”
“Then they left for Manchester. Easier to breathe. Valerie had our son—God, I was proud. But we never really… *clicked*. Still dreamed of Grace. When Valerie died, I nearly followed. Realized too late: life meant nothing without her.”
“Son gave me a laptop after—taught me Skype. Got curious, started browsing. Social media, old friends. Found *her* one day.”
“Messaged. No reply. Thought she’d forgotten me. Then—a short note. ‘Remember you. Glad you’re well.’ A year of letters. Finally admitted I’d loved her. She asked why I’d never said. Turns out she’d fancied me too.”
“Bloody hell.” Oliver whistled.
“All that time wasted. But no complaints—Valerie was good to me. Grace divorced years back. Alone since. Started video calls. We’d talk for hours. Then her grandson moved in—‘closer to uni,’ he claimed. Suspect her daughter got wind and panicked. With him around, Grace grew shy on camera. Calls dwindled.”
“So I proposed visiting. Couldn’t stand the distance. She agreed. Booked a ticket, nerves jangling like a teenager. But it was perfect. Hugged like old friends. Talked all night. Couldn’t sleep—just kept pinching myself.”
“Three days flew. On the fourth, the grandson ‘fell ill,’ skipped uni. Grace dashed to the chemist. He cornered me: ‘I see right through you. This flat’s *mine*—grandma’s will says so.’”
“I swore I didn’t want it—got my own place, no plans to move. He didn’t believe me. Threatened to call the cops, have us sectioned as ‘unstable.’”
“Fury hit me then—not for me, for *her*. Packed my bag (thank God I’d traveled light) and left. Now I wonder: should I have stayed? What if he *does* call the authorities? I’m too far to help.”
“Proper soap opera,” Oliver muttered. “What now?”
“Don’t know. Write, explain. Rebuild the letters.”
“He was bluffing, but… I reckon your Grace *is* in danger. That flat’s motive.”
“My thoughts exactly. She’ll be home by now—wondering where I am. What lies has he fed her? Listen—cherish your family. Without them… it’s bleak. Your wife needs you. And this Alina… She’s all charm *now*, but once you’re home full-time, paying child support? She’ll change.” Boris gestured to the board. “Train’s coming.”
Oliver blinked. “Your story’s… Christ.” The train’sThe train whistle drowned his reply, and as Boris helped Grace up the steps, her grandson’s furious shouts faded behind them, swallowed by the promise of shared tomorrows.
