Aarav had missed the 10:15 train by less than a minute.
He stood on the nearly empty platform, watching the red lights disappear into the darkness. Rain tapped against the metal roof, and the station clock showed 10:16 PM.
The next train was at midnight.
He sighed and sat on an old wooden bench.
Across the platform sat an elderly man wearing a grey coat. Beside him was a small brown suitcase that looked older than the station itself.
“You missed it too?” Aarav asked.
The man smiled. “Perhaps.”
For the next hour, they talked.
The stranger asked Aarav where he was going.
“Home,” Aarav replied.
“Do you go often?”
Aarav hesitated.
His parents lived only three hours away, yet he had not visited them in almost a year. Work had always seemed more urgent. There was always another meeting, another deadline, another excuse.
“My mother keeps asking me to visit,” Aarav admitted.
“And why don’t you?”
“I’m busy.”
The old man looked toward the tracks.
“Busy is a strange word,” he said. “People use it when they believe there will always be another Sunday.”
Aarav said nothing.
The station became quieter.
The man opened his suitcase and pulled out an old photograph. In it, a young couple stood outside a small house.
“My wife,” he said.
Aarav smiled. “Where is she now?”
The old man looked at the photograph for a long moment.
“She waited for me for many years.”
“For what?”
“To stop being busy.”
Aarav felt a strange weight settle in his chest.
The announcement for the midnight train echoed through the station.
Aarav stood and picked up his bag.
When he turned around, the bench across from him was empty.
The man was gone.
So was the suitcase.
Aarav looked around, confused.
A station guard walked past.
“Excuse me,” Aarav said. “Did you see the elderly man sitting there?”
The guard stopped.
“What elderly man?”
“The one with the grey coat.”
The guard stared at the empty bench.
Then his expression changed.
“Grey coat? Brown suitcase?”
“Yes.”
The guard pointed toward an old photograph hanging beside the ticket office.
Aarav stepped closer.
The photograph showed railway employees from decades ago.
One face immediately caught his attention.
The elderly man.
“That was Mr. Mehra,” the guard said quietly. “He worked here for thirty years.”
Aarav swallowed.
“Where is he now?”
“He died twelve years ago.”
The midnight train arrived.
But Aarav didn’t board it.
Instead, he walked outside, called a taxi, and dialed his mother.
She answered sleepily.
“Aarav?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Is everything okay?”
He smiled as rain ran down his face.
“Yes. I’m coming home.”