Emily didn’t know why she found herself drawn to train stations. Perhaps it was because trains didn’t linger—they left on time, even if you weren’t ready. Or maybe it was the way the platforms made it easier to breathe: the noise, the movement, the sea of unfamiliar faces. No one looked too long. No one asked questions. Everything was fleeting, as if life here was merely a stopover. In that transience, there was something comforting. Here, no one knew who you were before that morning. No one questioned why your eyes were red or your hands trembled.
Three times a week, after her hospital shift, she stopped at King’s Cross. She bought tea in a paper cup, picked up a pastry, and sat by the window in the waiting area. Sometimes she just sat there, feeling the warmth of the cup as the only steady thing in her day. Sometimes she scribbled in a notebook—not thoughts, just words, to prove she could still string them into sentences. Sometimes she watched the departure board—not to catch a train, but to remind herself: you could leave. You could return. You could become someone else. Or at least, yourself again, but not the version left behind in the past.
A year ago, her brother had vanished. He walked out of their flat and never came back. No calls. No notes. No CCTV footage. No clues—as if he’d evaporated. The police said, “It happens. Men leave on their own sometimes.” They filed the paperwork, nodded, moved on. But she knew—he hadn’t left. He’d disappeared. Like a light switched off. Instantly. Without warning. Without explanation. As if someone had torn him from her life, leaving not even a shadow.
Her mother collapsed after that. Nearly overnight. She stared at the wall, silent, refusing meals. Her father withdrew, speaking through gritted teeth, as if the house itself had turned alien. Only Emily remained—holding photos, clinging to the fading scent on his coat, carrying questions no one would answer. The house filled with echoes. Everything that once sounded alive now rang hollow.
For months, she searched: calling hospitals, morgues, volunteers. Pasting missing posters on bus stops. Scanning the faces of rough sleepers, half-hoping one would turn—and it would be him. Then, she stopped. Not because she’d accepted it. She’d just run out of the energy to hope. Hope, like a fire, dies too, if you don’t feed it. And she realized the only way forward was to keep breathing. Without direction. Without certainty. But breathing.
At the station, she first noticed the boy—about seven, drowning in an oversized hoodie. He sat against the wall, gnawing on a pastry, staring at the floor. His face was pale, lips thin, dark circles under wary eyes. His gaze was guarded, like a stray cat’s: tense, untrusting. The next day, he was there again. Then every time. She brought him juice, a notebook, a scarf. He never spoke. Just nodded. Sometimes he studied her, as if trying to puzzle out why she bothered. Like an alarm blared inside him: don’t let anyone too close.
After two weeks, he sat beside her. Slowly. Hesitantly. The way someone does when they’ve forgotten how to be near another person.
“Who’d you lose?” he asked, eyes fixed ahead.
Emily startled. First at the question, then at the weight of it. She sat quietly, as if afraid to voice what she’d carried for a year.
“My brother. You?”
“Mum. Three years ago. I was asleep. She left—that’s it.”
He said it flatly. Like reciting the runtime of a cartoon. No pity. No inflection. Just fact. Then he stood and walked off. No goodbye. But not pushing her away either. Just as people do when they’re used to being forgotten.
After that, they sat together. Mostly in silence. Sometimes he sketched—pencil scraping the edge of an old newspaper. Sometimes she read—not aloud, but with quiet focus. Sometimes they just watched trains pull away. One after another. Like breaths. Steady, unhurried, as if life itself moved to the rhythm of departures.
Occasionally, he asked short questions: “You a doctor?” “You always alone?”—then turned away the moment she answered. Emily didn’t press. Didn’t invade his silence. She understood the fear in him—the kind that perches like a bird on a wire, ready to flee.
She never asked where he slept. Not because she didn’t care. But because she sensed trust was something he’d offer, not something to be taken. And maybe that was it: sitting together, demanding nothing but presence.
One day, he didn’t come. Or the next. She scoured the station, searching the crowd for his face—by shape, by gait, by something unnamed. Asked security, showed his photo on her phone. They shrugged. “Lots of kids like him. All got stories,” they said, as if lives were numbers, not narratives.
A week later, she found him. In an underpass. Curled on cardboard, wrapped in the coat she’d given him. Eyes open but dull, lips cracked. He was breathing—barely. And the sound of it—shallow, ragged—tore through her. Because no one, no matter how strong, should breathe like that alone.
He spent four days in hospital. First unconscious, an IV in his thin arm, the blanket always slipping off. Nurses said his fever held, but his heart was stubborn. Emily barely left. Sat by the bed, read to him even when she knew he couldn’t hear. Or maybe he could, but couldn’t answer.
Then he opened his eyes and whispered:
“Thought you wouldn’t come.”
His voice was rough, as if dredged from somewhere long unused. She squeezed his hand—for him, or for herself, she wasn’t sure.
“I’ll always come,” she said. “Always. Even if you’re silent. Even if you don’t call.”
A month later, she filed for temporary guardianship. Not without doubt. She agonized, reread forms, phoned friends. Watched him asleep on her sofa and wondered if she had the right to decide for them both. Then she realized: he was her chance. Not random, but earned. A chance not just to help, but to matter. Not to fill emptiness—but meaning. He didn’t replace her brother. Couldn’t. But he became the one who looked at her each morning and said, “G’morning.” Who asked, “You smiled today?” like it mattered.
Two years passed. He went to school now. Lived with her. Carried a backpack with a sandwich and spare notebook. Had a bear-patterned blanket, a chipped favorite mug, and a sketchpad where he drew trains or shaded corners when lost in thought.
On the first page, he’d written: *”Don’t know where you sleep, Mum. But I know where I wake up.”* Emily kept that notebook like a letter. Reread it. And each time, felt something real return—the kind that stays, even when everything else falls away.
Loss carves hollows, but sometimes, the cracks let in light.
