The Last Train Home

~Lilya

The station was nearly empty, save for the faint hum of vending machines and the occasional flicker of a fluorescent light. A young woman, Clara, sat alone on a cold metal bench, clutching her weathered backpack. The last train home was delayed, and the minutes stretched like hours.

Her phone buzzed—a text from her sister. "Mom’s doing better. Don’t worry, just come home safe." Clara sighed in relief, the weight of the past week easing just a little.

As she looked up, she noticed an older man in a tattered coat sitting across from her. He was sketching on a yellowed notepad, his hand moving swiftly and deliberately. Clara’s curiosity got the better of her.

“What are you drawing?” she asked, her voice cutting through the stillness.

The man looked up, startled, then smiled warmly. “People. Stories.” He turned the pad toward her, revealing a sketch of the station—Clara at its center.

“That’s me,” she said, surprised.

“Everyone has a story,” he replied. “Yours seemed worth capturing.”

Clara felt a strange mix of flattery and vulnerability. “What do you see in me, then?”

The man hesitated, then said, “A girl on a journey, not just home but to something greater. You’re carrying more than what’s in that bag.”

The loudspeaker crackled, announcing the arrival of the train. Clara stood, the man’s words lingering in her mind.

As she boarded, she glanced back. The man was gone, leaving only the empty bench and a folded piece of paper where he’d sat. She picked it up and unfolded it.

It was the sketch, but now there was an inscription: “The strongest stories are the ones we write ourselves. Keep going.”

The train doors closed, and Clara smiled for the first time in days.