Writers 
At the station after midnight,
there is always someone waiting.
A woman with a red suitcase.
A boy counting coins in his palm.
An old man holding flowers
that have already begun to wilt.
Nobody asks where they are going.
Some destinations
are too complicated for conversation.
The clock above the platform
moves slowly,
as if even time is tired
of watching people leave.
Then the train arrives
steel, smoke,
bright windows cutting through the darkness.
For a moment,
everyone becomes brave.
The woman lifts her suitcase.
The boy checks his ticket twice.
The old man looks at his flowers
and smiles at something
only he remembers.
Doors open.
People disappear inside.
And just like that,
the station becomes quieter.
I wonder sometimes
how many lives are changed
by a single train.
A goodbye whispered
before the doors close.
A hand pressed against glass.
A promise made
without knowing
whether it can survive the distance.
Perhaps that is what makes
travel so frightening:
you leave as one person
and return as someone
the old version of you
would not recognize.
The train begins to move.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
The lights become stars
sliding across the darkness.
I stand beneath the station clock
and watch until
the last window disappears.
Then I notice something:
the platform is still here.
The moon is still here.
The night is still here.
And somewhere beyond the darkness,
another morning is waiting.
Maybe that is the secret
we forget when people leave.
Not every departure
is an ending.
Some are invitations.
Some are necessary distances
between who we were
and who we are becoming.
So if you ever find yourself
standing alone on a platform
after someone has gone,
do not mistake the emptiness
for the end of your story.
Listen.
There is another train coming.
And perhaps this time,
you are the one
who is finally ready
to get on.
