There’s a strange hum in the air when the wind shifts through the train station. You wouldn’t notice it unless you stood still long enough—long enough to stop chasing the next thing on your list. I never noticed it before. But today, with a half-eaten sandwich in my bag and the kind of exhaustion that settles deep into your bones, I heard it. Or maybe I felt it. It wasn’t a sound, exactly.
The 6:15 train was late. Again. My fingers itched for my phone, but I left it dead in my pocket. I watched the pigeons, instead. I’ve always hated pigeons. Rats with wings. But these pigeons, today, were like some ragtag choir, cooing and shuffling about with no purpose, no hurry. One of them had a limp, dragging a foot like an old war injury. Maybe it had a story to tell. Maybe not.
I caught myself imagining what it would be like to be a pigeon. I’ve never told anyone that before. Who would care? It’s not exactly a normal thought. People like you to say things that fit their neat little boxes. But the truth is, sometimes I want to be a bird. Not a pigeon, though. Maybe something a bit more graceful. An osprey, skimming the surface of the sea.
Anyway, the train finally rumbled in, all huffing and screeching like it was carrying the weight of a world full of regrets. And I stepped on, just like I did every other day. Except today, the car was empty. That never happens. I slid into a window seat, the kind with the cracked leather that makes a noise when you sit. For some reason, it reminded me of my grandmother’s couch. The one with the little crocheted blankets she would throw over everything as if they could cover up the wear and tear of the years. They couldn’t, of course.
The train moved, but I swear, outside the window, nothing was changing. The same gray blur of the city whizzed by, no matter how long I stared. No landmarks, no signs of life. It felt like a loop. The world outside was caught in some endless reel, repeating itself in a way that made my stomach tighten.
And that’s when the man sat down across from me. I hadn’t heard him come in, but there he was, wearing an old hat that belonged in a different time. His eyes—dark and unreadable—locked onto mine for a second. Just a second. Then, without a word, he looked away, gazing out the window like he was trying to figure out what I had already started to wonder.
“Is this train going anywhere?”
I didn’t ask him that. I should have. But my throat felt tight, like if I tried to speak, the words wouldn’t come out right. The hum in the air was louder now, as if it was growing into a song I couldn’t understand.
The man stood up before the next stop. I wanted to ask him where he was going, but he just tipped his hat, like people used to do in the movies. The kind my dad would watch on Sunday afternoons when he thought nobody was paying attention.
And then he was gone.
The train kept moving. I didn’t know where I was anymore, but it didn’t seem to matter. Maybe I was on my way to nowhere, or maybe I’d been there all along. Either way, I wasn’t sure I’d get off at the next stop
Comments