The Girl at Platform Nine

The Girl at Platform Nine

Written by Javeed

🚉 Prologue: A Glimpse in the Fog

Platform Nine at the old city station was quieter than usual. The mist curled through the iron beams and drifted low around the benches, wrapping everything in a sleepy gray veil. Most people passed by without noticing the girl sitting alone at the far end. But I did.

I wasn’t meant to be on that train. I wasn’t even meant to be in that city.

And yet, everything that followed started with that moment—when I looked up and saw her.

1. Missed Train, Unseen Timing

I was in London for a job interview. It didn’t go well. I had just enough time to catch the 5:30 train back to Manchester, but life had other plans. A spilled coffee, a dead phone battery, and a confused security guard had led me to miss it by mere minutes.

Frustrated, I slumped onto a cold bench, waiting for the next one.

That’s when I saw her.

She looked like something out of a dream: early twenties, long dark coat, black boots dusted in city grime. Her suitcase sat by her feet, untouched. She wasn’t scrolling on a phone or reading. She was just... sitting, staring into the fog.

And then, suddenly, she turned—and smiled at me.

2. “You Missed Yours Too?”

“Train troubles?” she asked, her voice soft, almost melodic.

I nodded. “Missed it by five minutes.”

She laughed lightly. “I’ve been missing mine for a while now.”

There was something about the way she said it—like it meant more than just a delay.

I moved a little closer. “You waiting for someone?”

She shook her head. “No. Just waiting.”

3. The Unusual Conversation

Most people at train stations talk in passing—short, hurried, forgettable. But she and I sat there for over an hour, talking like old friends.

She didn’t share her name, and I didn’t ask. She told me she came to this platform every day around sunset. That she found peace here. That sometimes, when she sat still enough, she could hear the trains that never came.

It sounded poetic and odd, and yet—I believed her.

I told her about my interview disaster, about my boring job, about how I always felt like I was walking a path I never chose. She listened without judgment. Only nodding.

“You don’t look lost,” she said. “You just haven’t figured out where you want to go yet.”

Her words stayed with me.

4. The Last Train

When the last train finally arrived, I hesitated.

I stood. “Will I see you here again?”

She smiled. “You might. But only if you’re still looking.”

I wanted to ask what she meant, but the doors were closing. I stepped on board, turned back to look—she was already gone.

5. The Girl Who Wasn’t There

The next day, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I returned to the station around the same time. Platform Nine was empty.

For the next three days, I came back.

No sign of her.

Eventually, I asked one of the station attendants, an older man who swept the platforms.

“There’s no girl who waits at Nine,” he said. “No one sits there anymore. Not since the accident.”

I froze. “What accident?”

He looked up. “About five years ago. A girl was hit by a train. Some say she was trying to leave, some say she changed her mind too late. Sad thing. She used to sit right there, every day.”

My chest tightened.

“What was her name?” I asked.

“Don’t know,” he shrugged. “But she had a suitcase, and no ID. Folks just call her the girl at Platform Nine.”

6. The Letter in the Bag

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I remembered every detail—the way she spoke, how peaceful she looked, the way her words felt more like echoes.

The next morning, I returned once more.

There, on the bench where she sat, was an old envelope. Yellowed, curled edges. My name was scribbled across the front.

I looked around. No one.

With trembling hands, I opened it.

> “To the one still looking:

Sometimes we find meaning not in arrival—but in the waiting.

When you’re ready to stop chasing what’s expected of you, come back.

Sit. Listen. You’ll know what to do.”

No name. Just a pressed violet tucked inside.

7. Years Later: The Return

It’s been four years. I left my job. I traveled. I started writing—stories, like this one. I talk to strangers at train stations.

And sometimes, I go back to Platform Nine. I sit quietly. I wait.

I don’t always see her. But sometimes, in the fog, I hear her voice.

And when I do, I smile.

Because not all ghosts haunt you. Some just sit beside you until you find your way.