Nightingale Tells A Tale

5. The Train That Never Arrived

The tracks stretched into the distance, rusted and overgrown with wildflowers, as though the earth itself was trying to reclaim them. The station was silent, save for the occasional whistle of the wind through the shattered glass of the ticket booth. No trains had come here in years. And yet, every evening, Mia waited.

She arrived precisely at 6:15 p.m., clutching a weathered leather satchel and wearing the same faded navy coat she had owned since college. Her routine was meticulous: she would step onto the platform, brush off the dust from the bench as if preparing for a guest, and sit, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the tracks disappeared into the fading light.

It was a ritual born of longing. Her brother, Leo, had loved trains. When they were children, he would drag her to the station, insisting they watch every departure, every arrival. He spoke of far-off places with an imagination that made even the dullest destinations sound magical. He dreamed of being a conductor, navigating endless horizons, his life a journey of perpetual adventure.

But those dreams were silenced one rainy evening five years ago, when Leo's car swerved off the road. Since then, Mia had been coming to the station, searching for something she couldn’t name, hoping for something she couldn’t explain.

She often imagined the train she waited for. It wasn’t a real train, she knew that much. It was a train of possibility, of escape—a train that would take her to a world where Leo was still alive, still dragging her to the station with his boundless enthusiasm. It was foolish, childish even, but it was all she had.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet, Mia noticed she wasn’t alone. An old man stood at the far end of the platform, leaning on a cane. His figure was stooped, his grey coat hanging off him like it belonged to someone larger. He stared down the tracks with an intensity that mirrored her own.

She watched him for a while, unsure whether to speak. He didn’t seem to notice her, lost in his own thoughts. Finally, her curiosity won out.

“Excuse me,” she called, her voice hesitant.

The man turned, his eyes sharp despite the weariness in his face. “Yes?” he replied.

“I couldn’t help but notice you… You’re waiting, too?” she asked, gesturing toward the tracks.

A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose I am. And you?”

Mia hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “I... I come here sometimes. For the quiet.”

The man chuckled, a low, dry sound. “Quiet, yes. This place has plenty of that.” He paused, then added, “But no one comes to an abandoned station just for the quiet.”

She felt a flicker of embarrassment, but something about his demeanor encouraged honesty. “I’m waiting for a train,” she admitted softly.

His expression didn’t change, as though he had expected her answer. “Ah,” he said. “So am I.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the wind picking up and carrying with it the faint scent of rain. Finally, Mia asked, “How long have you been waiting?”

The man’s gaze shifted back to the horizon. “Decades,” he said simply. “I first came here when I was a young man. Like you, I was waiting for something that didn’t come.”

“What were you waiting for?” Mia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a step closer to the edge of the platform, staring down the tracks as if he could will the train into existence. “My son,” he said finally. “He disappeared when he was ten. Vanished without a trace. The police said he was likely dead, but I couldn’t accept that. I told myself he had boarded a train, that he had gone somewhere I couldn’t follow.”

Mia felt her throat tighten. “And you thought the train would bring him back?”

The man nodded. “I thought if I waited long enough, if I believed hard enough, he would return. But the years passed, and the platform stayed empty.” He sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of memory. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we cling to impossible hopes. Even when we know, deep down, they’re just shadows.”

She didn’t know what to say. His words struck too close to her own unspoken fears. “Do you still believe he’ll come back?” she asked after a long pause.

The man turned to her, his eyes searching hers. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I keep coming. Not because I think the train will come, but because it’s the only place I feel close to him. As though the waiting itself keeps him alive.”

Mia understood then. It wasn’t about the train. It was about holding onto something, anything, that tethered them to the people they had lost. She looked down at the tracks, the rust glinting faintly in the fading light. “I think I’ve been doing the same thing,” she said quietly.

They sat together on the bench, the silence between them no longer heavy, but shared. The wind carried the first drops of rain, cool against their skin. Mia felt a strange sense of peace, as though the station itself had granted her permission to let go.

The next evening, she didn’t go to the station. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to stay home. She unpacked a box of Leo’s belongings she had never had the courage to open, letting herself remember him not as a ghost, but as the vibrant, adventurous soul he had been.

The station was empty that night. But the old man returned, sitting alone on the bench. His gaze, as always, was fixed on the horizon.

_____

"Sometimes, it’s not the train we wait for, but the courage to leave the platform."