The last train home

Marcus checked his watch for the third time. 11:47 PM. The platform was empty except for a crumpled newspaper rolling in the wind and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The last train to Ashford was supposed to arrive thirteen minutes ago. He shifted the weight of his duffel bag from one shoulder to the other and stared down the dark tunnel, willing the headlights to appear. Everything he owned was in that bag. Everything that mattered, anyway. A change of clothes, his mother's silver locket, and a letter he had written but never sent. Three years. That is how long he had lived in this city, and now he was leaving the same way he arrived — alone, at night, with nowhere in particular to be. A voice crackled over the loudspeaker. "Attention passengers. The 11:34 service to Ashford has been delayed. We apologize for the inconvenience." Marcus laughed quietly. Of course it was delayed. The universe had a sense of humor like that. He sat down on the cold metal bench and pulled out the letter. The envelope was soft at the edges from how many times he had held it. On the front, in his careful handwriting, it simply read: "Sophie." He turned it over in his hands. He could still mail it. There was a postbox at the end of the platform. But mailing it meant admitting that everything between them was really over — that three years of shared mornings and whispered plans had come down to ink on paper and a stamp. A sound echoed from the tunnel. Not the train. Footsteps. Marcus looked up. A woman emerged from the stairwell at the far end of the platform, her coat pulled tight against the November cold. She walked quickly, checking her phone, not noticing him. Then she stopped. Even in the dim light, he recognized her immediately. "Sophie?"