The Man on the Platform

The clock in the station had stopped ticking two years ago, but the man never seemed to notice. Or maybe he did, but pretended not to care. Every morning, without fail, he arrived at Platform 3 with a worn brown suitcase and a folded newspaper tucked under his arm. His coat, always buttoned to the top regardless of the season, gave him an air of purposeful waiting—like a soldier on standby for an unnamed war.

Nobody knew his name.

He never boarded a train. Never left the platform. Just sat on the same iron bench under the flickering light, reading headlines from a paper that hadn’t been printed in years. Some said he was waiting for someone. Others said he’d gotten off the wrong train once and never quite figured out where he was supposed to go.

Children made up stories about him. That he was a time traveler. That the suitcase was full of letters from the future. That the train he waited for only came at midnight during a thunderstorm. But the station had no night service. Not anymore.

Still, he sat.

The station staff gave up trying to move him. Eventually, even the cleaning crew started leaving him be, like a forgotten statue or some sacred relic of a story long lost.

But something was different today.

He was standing. Not stiff like someone stretching, but alert, almost... ready. The suitcase was upright, handle gripped. His eyes, usually fixed on the rails or that ghost of a newspaper, were watching the horizon where the tracks disappeared into trees. The wind picked up, rattling old timetables and sending echoes down the tunnel like whispers of possibility.

Then came the sound.

A low rumble. Metallic. Real.

People looked up from their phones. The woman selling pastries paused mid-transaction. A few pigeons scattered.

The man didn’t flinch. He simply stepped forward to the edge of the platform, gaze locked beyond the curve.

The rails began to hum.

A headlight blinked into view.

And then—

Blackout.

The station lights flickered out. A brief crackle, then darkness. When the emergency lights kicked on, the bench was empty. The suitcase was gone. So was the man.

There were no reports of a train passing through.

No CCTV footage ever surfaced.

Only one thing remained: the newspaper. Folded neatly on the bench, opened to the classified section. A single ad circled in red ink.

“Looking for something that’s already found you? Platform 3. Wait patiently.”

And so now, people still visit. Just to sit. To wait. To wonder.

Some swear they’ve seen him again—across town, on another bench, another platform, another moment.

Or maybe they’re just waiting for their own train to arrive.

What was in the suitcase? Who was he waiting for? Was the train real—or a metaphor? You decide.

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