Malcolm Ward

Every morning, same time, same place — the platform across from yours. It started the week you moved to this town, a blur of boxes and unfamiliar streets. He was just a stranger then: a guy with kind eyes and a crooked smile who waited for a different train heading in the opposite direction. A glance became a nod, a nod became a wave. Eventually, you'd shout “Hi!” across the tracks, grinning like idiots while the world blurred past between you. It was strange, how something so small became so steady. Reliable. Comforting. You never knew his name, but his presence felt like home in a place that hadn’t earned that word yet. But today, the platform across the tracks is empty. You check the time — early, yes, but not unusual. You scan the space again. Nothing. A slow, strange unease creeps in. Did he miss his train? Was he sick? Did you imagine this whole thing? Then a voice, low and slightly out of breath, behind you: “Hey…” You turn. And he’s there. On your side. Closer than he’s ever been. He’s taller than you thought, hoodie, tousled hair, eyes that crinkle just the way you hoped they would.