A Morning at the Train Station

Like breath on a windowpane, the early morning coolness hovered in the air, delicate and persistent. Above the tranquil town of Elmridge, which is more famous for its antique stores and apple orchards than for any sort of excitement, gray clouds swirled. However, there was a subdued urgency to the old rail station on the outskirts of town on this specific day, like to a secret whispered between two friends.

It had been a train station for almost a hundred years. The once-flaming crimson bricks had turned to subdued earthy hues. Ivy slipped along the wall to the west. A woman named Mrs. Dalloway, who knew everyone's order before they spoke, ran a small café in the corner, and the air inside smelled of dust, old wood, and freshly brewed coffee.

Clara Jensen arrived just after six in the morning.

With her fingers clenched tightly around a brown leather satchel, her auburn hair concealed under a knit cap, and a wool coat too large for her body, she entered through the huge glass doors. She paused every few steps, looking around the station as if she were expecting someone—or something—but her boots clicked on the tile floor with a deliberate beat.

It was another half hour before the train was scheduled to arrive.

Clara walked to the bench closest to Platform 3, which was the one furthest away from the entrance. She had been sitting on the same bench every Thursday for the previous six months. She would have appeared to most as just another early commuter, possibly a weary office worker or a student. However, her presence was part of a more subdued story to the few perceptive eyes in Elmridge.

A quiet voice next to her murmured, "Same area, same time."

Clara grinned as she turned her head. It was Arthur Bell, the unofficial story steward and station janitor. He was in his late sixties, with silver hair curling above his ears like waves on a weary beach and a hunched back.

She said, "Good morning, Arthur."

His eyes were gentle as he nodded. "Are you still waiting?"

Clara's smile faded slightly as she spoke.

She was not pressed by Arthur. He only tipped his hat, patted the bench as though to reassure it of her presence, and shuffled off, carrying his bucket and mop.

Clara looked up at the clock.She softly unzipped the satchel on her lap with her fingertips. A collection of letters, some still sealed and others with worn edges from opening and rereading too many times, were found within.

A cream envelope with smudged ink was the one she took out. Unmistakably, the handwriting was precise and curled, with a flair that conveyed confidence and a hint of romanticism. This time, she did not open it. She was memorized.

Clara had first met Elliot Morgan on a soggy October afternoon.

In order to chronicle the architecture of small-town stations along the historic rail line, he was taking a photography assignment that required him to board the train to Elmridge. Clara had been traveling home from a conference at the university in the city. A spilled coffee and a shared newspaper brought them together, and conversation blossomed as organically as spring.

Elliot possessed a voice that made everyday things seem significant and a laugh that warmed you from the inside out. They chatted the whole way and found they had similar tastes in poetry, blueberry muffins, and old movies.

They traded phone numbers. Emails come next. Next, letters.

Clara cherished the letters above anything else. Thoughts, dreams, and observations about the world were all recorded in Elliot's handwriting, which danced across the pages. He wrote while sitting on park benches, on trains, and in hotel rooms with groaning floorboards and peeling wallpaper. He wrote until he vowed to return by April for his last task, which involved a lengthy journey through Eastern Europe. On the first Thursday, meet me at Platform 3 at 6:30 a.m.

Almost seven months have passed since then.

A modest family with half-asleep kids and rolling baggage approached the station. One hand was used to sip coffee while the other was used to type quickly on his phone. The man was dressed in a business suit. The notification of a delayed freight train caused the speakers to crackle to life. Clara hardly heard it.

Rather, she was staring at the tracks. Her mind drifted back to the last time they had spoken, a video conference with shaky audio and the assurance that they would talk again. From under a wool scarf, Elliot had smiled and remarked, "I have one last stop." "I am going home after that."

But quiet had fallen after that. No phone calls. No emails. The letters ceased.

Clara looked at every potential source, including embassies, travel agencies, and his place of employment. Nobody was able to provide her with specific information. They stated, "Missing persons reports sometimes take time." They declared him to be an adult. "Perhaps he simply required room."

Clara, however, knew Elliot. He had a purpose for his disappearance. Thus, she continued to return. each Thursday. each morning.

Without saying a word, Mrs. Dalloway brought over a little paper cup of tea and placed it next to Clara. The elder woman put a soft hand on her shoulder, gave it a quick squeeze, and walked away. It was one of the many silent rituals that the station had developed.

The train arrived on time.

The sun was rising outside. The moist metal of the rails was transformed into tiny gold lines as its light streamed across the deck. Dawn kissed the chilly air, which was suddenly a little warmer.

Clara stood, her legs shaking with anticipation rather than cold. To prevent herself from floating away, she held the letter tightly in her fingers like an anchor.

First came the train's sound, distant thunder gaining volume and drawing her heart with it. Then she saw the haze of steel wheels and automobile after automobile coming to a stop in front of her.

The doors were opened.

Travelers poured out. A man holding a case for his guitar. A conductor assisted an older woman. An adolescent skateboarding and wearing headphones.

Not Elliot.

With each new wave of sadness and hope, Clara's gaze shifted from face to face. She waited for the final passenger to disembark, for the doors to close once more, and for the engine to let out its last sigh.

The train withdrew.

She stood nonetheless. Her heart was heavy but unbroken as she gazed at the deserted platform.

Then an odd thing occurred.

"Pardon me," a voice muttered, uncertain and strange.

Clara turned to see a young woman carrying a canvas messenger bag; she might have been in her early twenties. Her gaze were tentative and gentle.

The girl said, "You are Clara Jensen, right?"

Clara gasped for air.

The girl took a wrapped envelope out of her backpack. It had a cream tone and recognizable penmanship. "I got this from a man two months ago. in Romania. stated that he might not return in time. requested that if I ever passed through Elmridge, I deliver it. I did not intend to, but I am now.

Clara's hands were shaking when she grasped the envelope. Her eyes filled with tears. "I am grateful," she muttered.

The girl nodded, grinned, and turned to leave, just another traveler, just passing.

With the envelope tucked into her lap like a heartbeat, Clara took a seat again on the bench. Her fingers ached from the weight of time as she carefully opened it.

It said:

Clara, my dearest,

If you are reading this, it indicates that I was unable to fulfill my commitment. There is not enough room for me to tell you everything. The important thing is that I never once stopped thinking about you. The world is both beautiful and bizarre, and it can lead us in unexpected directions. But I kept coming back to you on my travels.

If all goes according to plan, I will be there on a Thursday morning. In the meantime, know that you are loved.

Always yours,

The ink was smudged by tears. Slowly, she folded the letter and pressed it against her chest.

Arthur walked past once more, stopping when he noticed her look.

The peaceful hum of the station resumed. As the day progressed like a sluggish sigh, people came and departed. Warm by the morning sun and the words of a love that transcended time, space, and quiet, Clara stayed on the ancient seat at Platform 3 for a bit longer.

She would wait.