The Station Bench

It was a cold Sunday morning when Rehan missed his train — again.

He had been running late for his job interview, his bag slung over one shoulder, his heart pounding as the train doors closed in front of him.

For a few seconds, he just stood there on the empty platform, breathing hard, watching the tail lights fade into the distance.

He cursed under his breath and sat down on the nearest bench, feeling the weight of his bad luck. It wasn’t the first opportunity he’d missed — life had been a series of “almosts” lately.

The sky above was overcast, the wind sharp. Around him, the station was nearly empty, except for a single elderly woman sitting at the far end of the same bench.

She was holding a small, worn-out suitcase and staring at the tracks — calm, unbothered, as though she’d been waiting her whole life.

For a long while, they sat in silence.

Then, she spoke without looking at him.

“You look like someone who’s chasing something.”

Rehan gave a small, tired laugh. “I was. But I think it just left without me.”

She smiled faintly. “Trains always do that. But there’s always another one.”

He looked at her, curious. “You waiting for someone?”

She nodded. “My son. Haven’t seen him in seven years. He said he’ll come today.”

There was something soft but unsteady in her voice — like she wanted to believe it, even if she wasn’t sure.

Rehan hesitated, unsure what to say.

He wanted to ask why they hadn’t spoken in so long, but something in her face told him not to pry.

Instead, he said, “Seven years is a long time.”

She nodded again. “Peace takes time. So does forgiveness.”

Minutes turned into an hour.

Rehan checked his watch — the next train was coming soon.

He glanced at the woman again. Her hands trembled slightly, her eyes fixed on the horizon as though she could summon her son by hope alone.

Without thinking, Rehan said, “Do you want me to wait with you until he comes?”

She smiled, grateful. “Only if you don’t mind missing another train.”

He chuckled. “At this point, missing things is what I’m best at.”

So he stayed.

They talked about small things — the smell of rain, how tea tastes different in different cities, the noise of children running past.

She told him about her garden, about how she used to write letters every month but stopped when they were never answered.

Somewhere in the middle of the conversation, Rehan forgot about his interview, his deadlines, his exhaustion.

He felt strangely calm — as if sitting there, beside her, he was learning something about peace without her ever needing to explain it.

Then, a distant whistle cut through the air — a train approaching.

Rehan stood up. “I think that’s mine.”

The woman looked at him and smiled warmly. “Go. You have things to chase. Don’t be afraid to start again.”

He nodded, reluctant to leave. “What about your son?”

She looked down the tracks. “If he comes, I’ll be here. If he doesn’t… maybe someone else will sit beside me. That’s enough.”

Rehan hesitated, then said softly, “You remind me of my mother.”

She smiled wider this time. “Then call her when you leave here. Peace starts with one message, you know.”

As the train pulled in, Rehan climbed aboard and turned to wave.

She was still there — small, steady, wrapped in her shawl — a figure of quiet patience in a world that rushed too much.

When the train began to move, he pulled out his phone.

He scrolled through his contacts, paused on a name he hadn’t called in months — “Ammi.”

And for the first time in a long time, he pressed “Call.”

That night, when Rehan reached home, he couldn’t shake the image of the old woman on the bench.

He wondered if her son had come.

He wondered if peace always waited like that — patient, gentle, never demanding.

He thought about something she said: “Peace takes time. So does forgiveness.”

Maybe that was true.

Maybe peace wasn’t a train you had to chase — maybe it was a bench where you stopped running, sat down, and waited long enough to see what really mattered.