The Train That Waited

The station was nearly deserted that winter night. Midnight had passed, and the fog wrapped around the platforms like a heavy blanket. The last train stood waiting, its headlights glowing faintly, hissing steam into the cold air. The few remaining passengers had already boarded, but one young woman remained seated on a wooden bench, clutching her suitcase.

Her name was Hana. She had bought her ticket hours earlier, but she hadn’t stepped onto the train. Instead, she sat frozen, her coat pulled tight around her, her eyes staring at the ground as though answers might appear between the cracks of the platform.

Three weeks had passed since her father died, but grief still felt like an open wound. The apartment they shared together was no longer a home—only an echo of silence. Her relatives had told her to move away, start fresh in another city, escape the emptiness that clung to her like shadow. This train was supposed to be her escape.

And yet, as the whistle blew faintly, Hana’s legs refused to move.

Her father’s memory lived in every corner of the city. He used to meet her at this very station when she was a little girl, always waiting with a thermos of hot tea. She remembered his voice so clearly, “Trains may come and go, Hana, but the people who wait for you—that’s where home is.”

Now there was no one left to wait for her. The thought pressed against her chest like a weight she couldn’t carry. She wondered if leaving would mean betraying that memory, leaving behind the only proof that he had been there at all.

The station clock ticked loudly. The conductor leaned out of the train, his breath misting in the air. He glanced toward her, almost expectantly, as if he, too, was waiting for her choice.

Minutes passed, but the train did not move.

Hana blinked through her tears. Trains were meant to run on schedule, yet this one lingered. It sat there as though it had all the time in the world, patient and silent. In the stillness, she felt something stir—a strange comfort, almost as if the train itself was waiting for her heart to decide.

She looked down at her suitcase. Inside were only the essentials: a few clothes, her father’s old watch, and a framed photo of them together. The watch had stopped ticking years ago, but she kept it because he had once said, “Even broken clocks remind us of time well spent.”

The air grew colder, biting at her fingers. Hana finally rose to her feet. Every step toward the train felt heavy, like wading through water. She reached the door, her hand hovering over the cold metal handle.

Her reflection shimmered faintly in the window. She didn’t look like someone ready for a new beginning—she looked like someone terrified of forgetting.

Her lips trembled as she whispered, “I’ll carry you with me, Baba. Wherever I go.”

With that, she pulled the door open and climbed aboard.

The train doors closed softly behind her, and the engine roared to life. The platform slipped away into the fog. Hana sank into a seat by the window, clutching the suitcase against her chest.

She didn’t feel like she was running anymore. She didn’t feel like she was abandoning her father’s memory. Instead, she realized she was carrying him with her—his voice, his love, and his light.

Outside, the darkness stretched endlessly, but the train surged forward, cutting through the night. For the first time since her father’s passing, Hana felt something shift inside her: not the end of grief, but the beginning of healing.

The train hadn’t left without her. It had waited, just as her father once did. And in that waiting, it gave her the courage to move forward.