The Woman at the Train Station

She waited at Platform 3 every Thursday.

Same time. Same coat. Same coffee — black with one sugar, never stirred.

Most people didn’t notice her.

But I did.

The first time I saw her, I assumed she was traveling.

The second time, I thought it was a coincidence.

By the third, I realized she was waiting — not for a train, but for someone who was never coming.

I started arriving early for my own train just to watch her.

She didn’t pace. She didn’t read. She didn’t even check the schedule board.

She just sat — back straight, eyes forward — like a soldier at ease.

Or a ghost waiting to be remembered.

Eventually, curiosity overtook caution.

One Thursday, I walked over and sat on the bench beside her.

She didn’t look at me, but she spoke.

“You’re two weeks late.”

I froze.

She turned then, slowly, and smiled.

“Not you, dear. Him.”

There was something in her voice — too calm, too tired, like someone who had long since made peace with disappointment.

We talked.

Not about much.

Not about the waiting.

She asked about my life as if she knew it already.

I lied about the small things.

She didn’t seem to mind.

Every Thursday after that, I sat with her.

Rain, sun, wind—she never missed a day.

She wore the same beige coat, always buttoned, no matter the weather.

She told me she once studied architecture.

That she loved stained glass and hated escalators.

That her sister lived too far away and called too rarely.

She never mentioned the man she was waiting for.

Until the last Thursday.

“I was supposed to leave with him,” she said, watching the rails. “We were going to Paris. That was the plan.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“He was late,” she said, simply. “And the train wasn’t.”

I didn’t know what to say.

I looked at her hands—delicate, folded in her lap like paper birds.

How long had she waited?

Months?

Years?

“Why keep coming back?” I asked.

She finally looked at me. Really looked at me.

“Because some places don’t let go of you until you say goodbye properly.”

She smiled once more—soft and worn, like a photograph fading at the edges.

And then, as the 5:42 train to Montbridge pulled in, she stood.

“I won’t be here next week,” she said.

“Why?”

“I think I’ve waited enough.”

She stepped onto the train.

Didn’t look back.

I sat there long after the train had gone.

The bench felt colder. The station louder.

She never told me her name.

And she never returned.

But every Thursday, I still go.

Not to wait—just to sit.

Sometimes I think she wasn’t real.

But then I remember the coffee cup she left behind.

The worn book with her notes in the margins.

The way she said goodbye without saying it.

Maybe she wasn’t waiting for him at all.

Maybe she was waiting for herself—the version that would have left that day.

***

This story is a work of fiction — but perhaps you’ve passed someone like her, and just didn’t know they were saying goodbye.

This is my first fictional piece on my Vocal Media Account — I’d truly love to know if it moved you.

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