The Traveller
The train rumbled into the station with a familiar rhythm—shunting, groaning, squeaking. Steam curled around the wheels like breath in winter air. The traveller stood alone on the platform, coat buttoned, bag slung over one shoulder. No rush. No crowd. Just the quiet anticipation of movement.
The doors opened with a hiss. A few passengers stepped off, chatting softly. Others stepped on. The traveller waited until the last moment, then boarded, choosing a window seat near the rear. The whistle blew. The train lurched forward, steaming, moaning, rattling, out of the station and into the dusk.
Fields blurred past. Trees flickered like memories. The traveller watched, not with urgency, but with curiosity. This was not a commute. This was not an escape. It was something gentler: a journey for its own sake.
The carriage was quiet. A child slept against her mother’s shoulder. A student scribbled notes. A man read a paperback. The traveller smiled. Each person carried a story, and for this brief stretch of track, their paths aligned.
As the train climbed a gentle hill, the clouds parted. The moon broke through, silver and full, casting light across the landscape. The rails gleamed. The fields shimmered. The traveller leaned closer to the glass, eyes wide.
He remembered a night long ago, standing on a different platform, watching a train disappear into the dark. Back then, he hadn’t boarded. He’d stayed behind, afraid of what lay ahead. But tonight was different.
The train slowed. A small station appeared, more of a halt - just a bench, a lamppost, and a sign half-covered in ivy. The traveller stood, adjusted his bag, and stepped off.
No one else disembarked. The train pulled away, its whistle fading into the distance.
He looked around. The air was cool, tinged with pine and damp earth. The halt was quiet. There were no announcements, no footsteps, no rush. Just the hum of the rails cooling and the soft rustle of leaves.
He walked to the far bench, the one beneath the flickering lamp. Sat down. Let the silence settle.
Above, the moon hung low, casting pale silver across the empty tracks. A moth danced near the light. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called.
The traveller didn’t move.
He didn’t need to.
This was not a destination.
Just a pause.
And for now, that was enough.
The train rumbled into the station with a familiar rhythm—shunting, groaning, squeaking. Steam curled around the wheels like breath in winter air. The traveller stood alone on the platform, coat buttoned, bag slung over one shoulder. No rush. No crowd. Just the quiet anticipation of movement.
The doors opened with a hiss. A few passengers stepped off, chatting softly. Others stepped on. The traveller waited until the last moment, then boarded, choosing a window seat near the rear. The whistle blew. The train lurched forward, steaming, moaning, rattling, out of the station and into the dusk.
Fields blurred past. Trees flickered like memories. The traveller watched, not with urgency, but with curiosity. This was not a commute. This was not an escape. It was something gentler: a journey for its own sake.
The carriage was quiet. A child slept against her mother’s shoulder. A student scribbled notes. A man read a paperback. The traveller smiled. Each person carried a story, and for this brief stretch of track, their paths aligned.
As the train climbed a gentle hill, the clouds parted. The moon broke through, silver and full, casting light across the landscape. The rails gleamed. The fields shimmered. The traveller leaned closer to the glass, eyes wide.
He remembered a night long ago, standing on a different platform, watching a train disappear into the dark. Back then, he hadn’t boarded. He’d stayed behind, afraid of what lay ahead. But tonight was different.
The train slowed. A small station appeared, more of a halt - just a bench, a lamppost, and a sign half-covered in ivy. The traveller stood, adjusted his bag, and stepped off.
No one else disembarked. The train pulled away, its whistle fading into the distance.
He looked around. The air was cool, tinged with pine and damp earth. The halt was quiet. There were no announcements, no footsteps, no rush. Just the hum of the rails cooling and the soft rustle of leaves.
He walked to the far bench, the one beneath the flickering lamp. Sat down. Let the silence settle.
Above, the moon hung low, casting pale silver across the empty tracks. A moth danced near the light. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called.
The traveller didn’t move.
He didn’t need to.
This was not a destination.
Just a pause.
And for now, that was enough.
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