Hushed Tides

The night was humid.

Thick air, clinging to his neck like old regret.

He stepped into the station.

Midnight hours, when the world seemed to breathe quieter.

The howling time.

He used to think of wolves. Beautiful, tragic creatures.

They mate once.

And if that mate dies — they never choose again.

A foolish thought. But he couldn’t help it.

The moon hung low above the station roof, and it made him think of her.

Not in words. In feeling. In silence.

The stars blinked like distant memories — soft, quiet, unreachable.

He walked to the platform, alone.

Benches, stained with rust and sleep.

A flickering tube light. A vending machine humming in the dark.

He sat.

Still.

The silence was loud — louder than the city ever was.

And the air, soaked in moisture, felt too heavy to swallow.

His fingers curled into fists. His throat tightened.

No. Not here.

Not again.

He clenched his jaw.

Held it in.

Fought like a man trying to hold back the ocean with a paper wall.

But grief is patient.

It waits.

His eyes reddened, water rising like flood tides — and finally,

it spilled.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just slow, steady drops tracing the edge of his jaw.

That’s when it came —

the thought he buried beneath work, noise, and time.

He still loved her.

Deeply. Desperately. Stupidly.

And he always would.

There was nothing to be done.

She was gone.

And the world didn’t care.

He sat there, crying into the silence.

Then — a crackle. The loudspeaker came to life.

“Train number 17229 arriving in five minutes.”

And with that came the question.

One he had avoided for months.

Go back… or get on?