The Last Train to a Forgotten Summer

I stand on the platform where time seems to hold its breath, the air tasting of ozone and old memories. They say these trains carry us toward futures we haven't earned yet, but I only ever feel like a ghost haunting my own life in this navy-blue uniform.
He was there every Tuesday at 4:17 PM—a man with eyes that looked as though they had read a thousand books and wept through half of them. He never spoke; he simply handed me an orange from the station market, its peel releasing a sudden, sharp sweetness into the gray urban hum.
Today, I felt his gaze linger on the curve of my shoulder, a silent conversation between two lonely souls adrift in a city that forgets names by morning. As the train screeched to a halt behind me, he leaned closer—not touching, but close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating from his coat.
"You look like someone who is waiting for something that may never arrive," he whispered, his voice an ancient cello melody in a world of digital noise. I turned slowly, my pleated skirt swaying like a pendulum marking seconds we couldn't afford to waste. In that fleeting moment, the cold station became our sanctuary—a small, hidden box where time stopped and only the scent of citrus and quiet longing remained.

Editor: Antique Box