The Winter Station
October 19, 2025
The train station was nearly empty, its marble floor gleaming under the weak yellow light of December afternoon. Snow drifted lazily outside, blurring the edges of the city into watercolor.
Lena sat on the long wooden bench, clutching a small suitcase and a ticket that had already started to crumple at the edges. The 6:40 to Vienna was delayed again—signal failure, the announcement said. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
She wasn’t running away, she told herself. Just… leaving.
“Cold day for travel,” came a voice from behind her.
She turned. A man stood a few feet away, tall, with a wool coat dusted in snow and a book in one hand. His smile was polite, the kind that asked permission before it lingered.
“It’s winter,” Lena said, offering the ghost of a smile. “I suppose the weather’s allowed to be cold.”
“True,” he said, setting his bag down beside her. “But it’s easier to complain than accept.”
She looked at him curiously. “Are you a philosopher or just bored?”
“Architect,” he said with a grin. “But my train’s delayed, so today I’m a philosopher.”
He held out his hand. “Daniel.”
“Lena.”
They shook hands, and for a moment, it felt absurdly formal—two strangers exchanging names in a place where people came only to leave.
The loudspeaker crackled again, announcing another delay. Daniel sighed and sat beside her.
“Vienna?” he asked.
“Yes. You too?”
He nodded. “Meeting a client. Though at this rate, we might get there by spring.”
Lena chuckled. “You don’t sound too worried.”
“I’ve learned trains, like people, arrive when they’re ready.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “That sounds rehearsed.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But it’s also true.”
He opened his book but didn’t read it. After a few moments of silence, he said, “You’re not much of a traveler, are you?”
She blinked. “Why would you say that?”
“You keep looking at the clock,” he said gently. “People who travel often stop caring about time.”
Lena smiled faintly. “You’re very observant.”
“I’m an architect,” he said again, almost as if it explained everything. “We’re trained to notice when things are about to fall apart.”
The café at the far end of the station smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon. When the next announcement came—another hour’s delay—Daniel stood up and nodded toward it.
“Coffee? My treat. Philosophers shouldn’t think on empty stomachs.”
She hesitated, then followed. They found a small table near the window, frost tracing delicate patterns on the glass.
“So,” he said, stirring sugar into his cup, “what’s in Vienna? Holiday? Business?”
Lena hesitated before answering. “Neither. My brother lives there. We haven’t spoken in years.”
“Ah,” Daniel said softly. “A bridge to rebuild.”
She smiled wryly. “Something like that. We argued after our parents died. I stayed in Sofia, he moved away. Letters turned into silence.”
“Silence can be loud,” he murmured.
She met his gaze. “You sound like someone who’s heard it.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “My wife used to say that before she stopped saying much at all.”
Lena froze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupted gently. “She left last year. We tried for a long time to fix what wasn’t there anymore.”
For a while, neither spoke. The world outside the window blurred into snow and shadows.
“Do you miss her?” Lena asked finally.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Mostly, I miss the version of myself that existed when she loved me.”
They wandered back to the waiting hall after the café closed. The lights had dimmed, the snow outside thickened. The great clock above the platform ticked loudly in the hush of evening.
Daniel pulled a sketchbook from his bag. “Mind if I draw?”
Lena laughed softly. “What, me?”
“You, the benches, the clock—whatever fits.”
She watched as his pencil moved quickly, capturing the quiet scene. “You’re good,” she said.
“I’ve had practice waiting,” he said without looking up.
“What do you draw when you’re not in stations?”
“Places that might exist someday,” he said. “And people who probably won’t.”
There was something wistful in his tone that tugged at her chest.
“Maybe you’ll build one of them,” she said.
He smiled faintly. “Maybe I already did. Just couldn’t live in it.”
At 9:10, the loudspeaker finally announced that the Vienna train was ready for boarding. The words echoed through the vast hall like an ending.
“Well,” Lena said, standing. “Looks like it’s time.”
Daniel closed his sketchbook. “Looks like it.”
They walked together toward the platform, their footsteps soft against the stone. Snowflakes drifted through the open doors, swirling in the cold light.
“I never asked,” he said as they waited near the train. “What will you say to your brother?”
She exhaled. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I think I’ll just start with hello.”
He smiled. “That’s a good place to begin.”
“And you?” she asked. “What will you tell your client?”
“That he should build something sturdy,” Daniel said. “Something that doesn’t fall apart when the weather changes.”
She laughed softly. “You’re full of metaphors.”
“Occupational hazard.”
The conductor called for passengers to board. Daniel picked up his bag, then paused. “Do you believe in coincidences?”
“I believe in train delays,” Lena said. “The rest, I’m not sure about.”
He grinned. “Fair enough.”
They found seats across from each other in the same carriage. The train lurched forward, lights flickering past the windows. The station slipped away, replaced by endless white fields and the hum of motion.
They talked until the rhythm of the train became a heartbeat. About childhood summers, about the books they never finished, about why certain songs make you remember people you shouldn’t.
When Lena began to nod off, Daniel draped his coat over her shoulders.
“You don’t have to—” she murmured.
“I know,” he said. “But I want to.”
She smiled faintly, eyes half-closed. “Thank you.”
Outside, snow fell heavier. Inside, warmth grew between them like a fragile promise neither dared name.
They arrived in Vienna just before dawn. The city still slept, its rooftops pale with frost. On the platform, they lingered for a moment longer than politeness required.
“So,” Daniel said, adjusting his scarf. “This is goodbye.”
“For now,” she said. “Trains run both ways.”
He smiled. “Then maybe I’ll wait for yours someday.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then reached into her pocket, scribbling something on the corner of her ticket.
“My number,” she said, handing it to him. “In case you ever get delayed again.”
Daniel laughed softly. “That could be dangerous. I’m very good at missing trains.”
“I’m starting to think I am too,” she said.
He tucked the paper carefully into his sketchbook. “Then maybe next time, we won’t need one.”
Lena nodded, turned toward the street, and walked into the waking city.
Behind her, Daniel watched until the crowd swallowed her, then opened his sketchbook. On the page where he’d drawn her in the station, he wrote beneath the sketch:
“Some arrivals are disguised as delays.”