The Train I Almost Missed

The 7:45 train was late again — just like it always was on Mondays. The platform was crowded with tired faces and the smell of burnt coffee. Everyone looked impatient, as if being late was the greatest tragedy of their day.

Everyone except Mia.

She didn’t mind the delay. Not today. She had nowhere to rush to, no one waiting on the other end. She liked the in-between — the moments where life felt paused, where no one expected her to be anything but there.

The rain had just started, soft and hesitant, tapping gently against the edge of the platform. She adjusted her scarf, put on her headphones, and pressed play on her favorite song — the one she always listened to when she wanted to disappear.

Then she felt a light tap on her shoulder.

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice said, “is this the train to Ashfield?”

She turned. He looked about her age — slightly disheveled hair, camera hanging from his neck, holding a folded train ticket that looked like it had survived a storm.

“It is,” she said, pulling out one earbud. “If it ever decides to show up.”

He smiled, half embarrassed. “Good to know I’m not the only one waiting on life.”

She laughed — and for a second, something small but undeniable shifted in the air.

The train finally arrived twenty minutes later. The crowd pushed in, restless and murmuring. She found a seat near the window, and a moment later, the stranger sat across from her.

He introduced himself as Elias. He worked in sound production — recording ordinary noises, he said. Rain, footsteps, wind, laughter. He believed every sound told a story.

Mia raised an eyebrow. “So, you collect noise?”

He grinned. “No. I collect moments. Sound is memory, just louder.”

She liked that. It felt like something she might’ve written once — back when she still believed in poetry.

By the time the train reached her stop, the conversation hadn’t slowed once. She almost didn’t get off.

As she stood, he said, “Maybe I’ll see you on this train again?”

She paused, smiled, and said, “Maybe you will.”

They did see each other again. Once, then twice, then every week.

Always on the same train. Always at the same time.

They shared coffee, playlists, and little bits of their lives. He told her he grew up near the sea, that he used to record the sound of waves to help him sleep. She told him she used to paint but stopped because life got too busy being practical.

He teased her for always drinking her coffee too late and called her the queen of cold lattes.

And every time the train pulled into Ashfield, she’d pretend not to notice how hard it was to say goodbye.

It wasn’t love at first sight. It was slower — a love that unfolded quietly between passing stations and shared silences.

Then one morning, Elias wasn’t there.

At first, she thought he’d just missed the train. But the next day, and the day after that — still nothing.

She texted him. No reply. Called. Straight to voicemail.

Then she saw the news. A car accident near the Ashfield highway. A list of victims. His name among them.

The world didn’t stop. But hers did.

The next morning, Mia still took the train. She sat in the same seat, clutching her coffee like it was proof that something still existed.

She played their old voice messages — the jokes, the half-sung songs, the quiet “see you tomorrow.”

And one day, while scrolling through her files, she found an audio clip she didn’t recognize.

It was labeled: “For M.”

Her hands shook as she pressed play.

Elias’s voice filled the silence.

“If you’re hearing this, I guess my timing’s as bad as this train’s. I just wanted to say… thank you. For every Tuesday, every song, every smile. You made life sound better. You made silence feel like peace.”

Her tears came quietly. Not like a storm — but like rain that had been waiting too long to fall.

Months passed.

Mia started recording sounds too — maybe as a way to keep him close. She recorded the train’s brakes, the chatter of passengers, the rain against the glass.

She turned them into something new — a podcast called “The Train I Almost Missed.”

She told stories about strangers, about fleeting connections, about love that doesn’t end — just changes form.

The podcast went viral.

People wrote to her from everywhere — saying her stories made them cry, made them remember, made them believe again.

But for Mia, it wasn’t about the numbers.

It was about the sound.

The rhythm of life continuing.

One year later, the 7:45 train was still late.

The sky was cloudy, the city loud, and she was there again — same platform, same song, same smile.

When the train finally arrived, she stepped inside, took her usual seat, and placed her recorder on the table.

Outside, the rain tapped gently against the window — soft, steady, familiar.

She whispered into the mic,

“Elias, if you’re listening, I hope the next train took you somewhere beautiful.”

Then she pressed record.

And the world — just for a moment — sounded like music again.