The Last Train to Verona

The platform was nearly empty, save for a few scattered commuters and the soft hum of the vending machine. Rain tapped gently on the glass roof above, casting shimmering reflections on the slick tiles below. It was 11:42 PM, and the last train to Verona would arrive in eight minutes.

Clara adjusted the strap of her satchel and glanced at the departure board. Her heart thudded with anticipation and a touch of dread. She hadn’t seen Luca in three years—not since the night they’d argued under the same rain-soaked sky, when she’d boarded a train without saying goodbye.

She hadn’t expected his message.

“Meet me at the station. Last train to Verona. If you still believe in us.”

It was cryptic, romantic, and maddeningly Luca.

Clara paced the platform, her boots clicking softly. She rehearsed what she might say. “I’m sorry.” “I missed you.” “I never stopped loving you.” But each phrase felt too small, too rehearsed. She wanted to be honest, not poetic.

A sudden gust of wind swept through the station, carrying with it the scent of wet stone and distant pine. She turned toward the entrance—and there he was.

Luca.

He looked older, more tired, but still unmistakably him. His dark hair was longer, curling slightly at the ends, and his coat was the same navy one he used to wear when they walked along the Arno River. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

“Clara,” he said, voice low and uncertain.

She swallowed. “You came.”

“I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” she admitted. “But then I remembered Verona.”

He smiled faintly. “The city of second chances.”

They stood in silence, the train tracks stretching endlessly behind them.

“I thought you hated trains,” Clara said, trying to lighten the mood.

“I do. But I hated not knowing more.”

“More?”

“What could’ve happened if we hadn’t let pride win.”

Clara looked down. “I was scared. You wanted everything so fast—moving in, marriage, kids. I wasn’t ready.”

“I know,” Luca said. “I was impatient. I thought love meant urgency. But maybe love means waiting.”

The train’s headlights appeared in the distance, a soft glow cutting through the mist.

“I’ve changed,” Clara said. “I’ve lived alone. I’ve traveled. I’ve written. I’ve missed you.”

Luca stepped closer. “I’ve waited. I’ve worked. I’ve learned to cook—badly. I’ve thought about you every day.”

She laughed, a soft, surprised sound. “You? Cooking?”

“Disaster. But I make a mean risotto now.”

The train slowed as it approached, brakes hissing. The doors would open in seconds.

“So,” Luca said, “do we get on?”

Clara hesitated. “What’s in Verona?”

“A small apartment near the river. A bookstore that smells like cinnamon. A future, maybe.”

She looked at the train, then back at him. “And if I don’t get on?”

“I’ll go anyway. But I’ll always wonder.”

The doors opened with a soft chime. A few passengers stepped off. The conductor glanced at them, then turned away.

Clara took a deep breath. “I don’t have a ticket.”

“I bought two.”

He held it out, trembling slightly.

She stared at it. A simple slip of paper. A choice.

“I’m still scared,” she whispered.

“So am I,” Luca said. “But maybe we can be scared together.”

She reached out and took the ticket.

They boarded the train.

—

The compartment was quiet, dimly lit. Clara sat by the window, watching the city blur past. Luca sat beside her, hands folded, eyes on her.

“I kept your letters,” he said.

“You mean the ones I never sent?”

“I found them in your old desk. Your sister gave me the key.”

Clara flushed. “They were messy. Emotional.”

“They were beautiful.”

She turned to him. “Why now, Luca? Why this train?”

“Because I saw you last week. At the gallery. You didn’t see me. You were laughing with friends, wearing that green scarf I gave you. And I realized I didn’t want to be a memory anymore.”

Clara touched the scarf. “I wear it when I need courage.”

He smiled. “Then maybe it worked.”

The train curved along the hills, lights flickering. Clara leaned her head against the glass.

“I used to imagine this,” she said. “Us, traveling together. Reading books. Sharing silence.”

“I imagined us arguing over which pasta to cook.”

She laughed. “You always wanted carbonara.”

“And you wanted pesto.”

“Still do.”

They smiled, the kind of smile that comes after years of silence.

“I don’t expect everything to be perfect,” Clara said. “I don’t even know if we’ll make it.”

“We don’t have to know,” Luca replied. “We just have to try.”

She reached for his hand. He took it.

—

They arrived in Verona just after 2 AM. The station was quiet, the city asleep. Luca led her through cobbled streets, past shuttered cafés and ivy-covered walls.

“This way,” he said, guiding her to a small building with a blue door.

Inside, the apartment was warm, filled with books and mismatched furniture. A kettle whistled softly in the kitchen.

“I made tea,” he said. “Chamomile.”

She took the cup, fingers brushing his. “Thank you.”

They sat on the couch, steam rising between them.

“I don’t know what tomorrow looks like,” Clara said.

“Neither do I.”

“But I’m glad I got on that train.”

He looked at her, eyes soft. “Me too.”

Outside, the rain had stopped. The city was quiet, waiting.

And inside, two hearts began again.