The 6:17 to Somewhere New

Marc hadn’t taken the 6:17 PM train in nearly two years. That train used to be his daily escape—his rhythm, his ritual—until one day it quietly became his cage. Back when he worked in the glass-and-steel tower downtown, Marc believed in rhythms. Wake up. Coffee. Commute. Keyboard clatter. Lunch break. More clatter. Train home. Repeat. The predictability gave him purpose, or at least the illusion of it.

Then Elise left.

She took her warmth with her and even the plants they once raised together. Even the succulents—who’d have thought those tiny leaves needed care? Marc had never paid much attention. He had stood in the middle of their apartment, silent and hollow, staring at the empty windowsill as if it owed him an explanation, as if it was responsible for her absence.

The 6:17 PM train didn’t wait for broken hearts. It didn’t pause for people who needed time to heal. For months afterward, Marc stayed off trains. He walked instead. Sometimes he biked, letting the wind push him forward like a soft reprimand. More often, he stayed home, watching the sun crawl across the floor like it was the only movement left in his world. He learned that silence wasn’t always stillness. Sometimes silence screamed.

It was on a gray Tuesday that something inside him stirred again. Maybe it was the way the clouds hung like questions above the city skyline, or maybe it was the ache of routine calling him back—not to be a worker, but to be human again. He bought a ticket. Platform 9. The 6:17 to somewhere he hadn’t named yet.

Marc stood on the platform, hands deep in the pockets of his worn coat. The breeze tugged at his scarf, making it dance like it remembered music he’d long forgotten. Around him, the station buzzed with strangers who weren’t really strangers—each carrying their own stories, their own quiet battles. A man with paint splattered jeans, his fingers stained with colors no one else could see. A girl engrossed in a tattered novel, flipping pages as if chasing a secret. A woman crying quietly into her phone, her sobs muffled but real. All of them moving forward, in one way or another.

Then he saw her.

Not Elise. Not quite.

She had Elise’s curls but none of her posture. This woman stood like someone who had known sadness and grown around it, like a tree bending patiently toward the light. She caught his eye and smiled.

Marc looked away, suddenly feeling like an intruder in his own story. But she didn’t disappear. She walked over—confident, gentle—and said, “You look like someone who just made a decision.”

Marc blinked, caught off guard. “I... I think I did.”

“What is it?”

“I’m getting on the 6:17.”

She nodded. “Good choice.”

The train pulled in, loud and trembling, the doors hissing open like an invitation to start again.

They sat across from each other. She introduced herself—Clara. An artist, she said. Moved back to the city after a breakup. Figuring things out, like him. There was a softness in her voice that felt like a balm.

Marc told her he used to be something—a man with a plan, a future—but now he wasn’t sure what. The glass tower job, the routines, even the dreams—they’d all dissolved into something unrecognizable.

“That’s okay,” she said simply. “You’re still becoming.”

The train moved forward, and so did time.

They spoke of small things—books they hadn’t finished, movies that made them cry, music that felt like a secret language. Things you tell strangers because they don’t know your scars. Marc found himself laughing. Not just because Clara was funny—though she was—but because it felt like rain after a drought. It surprised him. It fed him.

For the first time in a long time, the world felt a little softer.

As the train neared her stop, Clara stood, gathering her things.

“I’m glad you got on today,” she said, her smile warm and real.

“So am I,” Marc replied, meaning it more than words could say.

She paused, then added, “Maybe you’ll take it again?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

Her smile was the kind that makes you believe in soft beginnings—the kind that whispers of possibility and gentle healing.

Then she was gone.

Marc stayed on the train for two more stops. Not because he was lost, but because—for the first time in a long time—he was okay not knowing exactly where he was going. The city passed by outside the window, a blur of lights and shadows, but inside, something quiet and new was stirring.

When he finally got off the train, the air smelled like something new. Not just rain or the city or the lingering scent of the night—but the scent of a fresh start.

Marc took a deep breath, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck, and stepped forward into the unknown.