The hall where everything still waits
I missed my train. Not because I was delayed—just hesitated. Stupid, frustrating, and honestly, hopeless in a way that stung. I stood on the empty platform at South Station, smoking for the first time in years—openly, like there was nothing left to lose—watching the red taillights disappear into the dark. I inhaled greedily, as if the smoke held answers I’d been missing. Then it hit me: there was no rush anymore. Where I was headed, nothing would change. And home… I didn’t want to go home. It was just empty there. Everything I’d once walked away from.
I wandered along the platform, half hoping I’d find another path, another chance, another turn. But there was nothing—just wet asphalt, murky puddles, and my own reflection staring back. The rain had just started—light, cold, barely noticeable. I stepped into the waiting room—old, drafty, cracks in the ceiling, the smell of rust, damp, and time that had stopped here.
Spring was only on the calendar. Inside, it still smelled like winter. The radiators creaked more than they heated, dirt collected under the benches, and the walls breathed cold. By the window sat a woman in her forties with a boy, maybe eight. He was eating cold sausage rolls from a plastic container, methodically, like it was a task. His school uniform peeked out under his coat, neatly folded on his lap. A worn rucksack rested at his feet. He chewed carefully, wincing—clearly, the rolls had hardened. The woman stared through the window, eyes hollow, hands clenched on her knees like she was holding herself together. Her fingers trembled. Like something inside her was about to break.
I wouldn’t have noticed them if not for her voice:
“You know he’s not coming back, right?”
The words came out rough, like she’d dragged them up from somewhere deep. The boy didn’t react. Just nodded and kept eating. Like he’d heard it before. Like there was nothing new in it.
I felt ashamed—not for them, for myself. For eavesdropping. For having walked away from someone too. I wanted to step back into the rain, let it freeze me clean, numb me. I stood, moved toward the door, then heard:
“Don’t be angry with him. He just couldn’t. He’s weak.”
Her voice cracked on *weak*, like saying it out loud made it real for the first time. The boy gripped his fork tighter, knuckles whitening. Silent.
I didn’t leave. For some reason, I sat closer. Not to intrude—just not knowing where else to be. The quiet between them held more truth than any shouting. The woman glanced at me—briefly, no anger. Just the look of someone exhausted.
“Sorry,” I said. “My train left a bit early.”
She nodded. Face still as stone. Then the boy looked at me and asked:
“Who left you?”
Simple, like it didn’t need an answer. Or like it did—right here, right now.
“Myself,” I said. “I left.”
He nodded, like he understood. Then:
“Where now?”
“Dunno,” I shrugged. “Here, for now. Then… we’ll see.”
The woman stood, unsteady, like her legs were made of cotton.
“Come on, Jamie. Our bus is in twenty.”
The boy packed up silently. They left. Didn’t look back. Just the click of the door—and they were gone. And I stayed. Alone. In that hall where time had stopped, where the smell of someone else’s life hung in the air.
I glanced at the bench. A crumpled napkin lay there. I picked it up, tossed it away. Like throwing out a piece of what I should’ve let go of long ago.
I sat for half an hour. Silent. Then an old man walked in—short, in a worn-out jacket, a folder under his arm. Smelled of liniment and medicine. He sat beside me. Didn’t speak. Ten minutes passed.
Then he said:
“I come here every day. Force of habit. My wife and I used to meet here. She’s…” He paused, sighed. “Gone now. But I still come. Silly, I suppose. Don’t know another way.”
I nodded.
“Did you love her?”
“Course. Stupidly.”
“Love’s never stupid. Just… poorly timed,” I said. He didn’t add anything else.
He left, wet footprints trailing behind. I followed. The rain had nearly stopped, just lazy drops pattering the pavement. Steam curled over the tracks, like the station itself was sighing.
I watched him go—small, fragile, like a figure caught in the wind. And suddenly, I knew—I wanted to go home. Not to a house. To myself. To the place where the light still was. Where someone waits, even if you walked away.
I went to the ticket counter and bought a fare.
The train arrived right on time. Sharp. Like fate decided not to be late today. And I stepped on—slow, like I’d finally found the right direction after so long.
