The Station That Had No Trains

I discovered the station while looking for a way out of the town.

I had been walking for some time, following a road that appeared on my map but seemed reluctant to lead anywhere. Eventually it brought me to a railway station.

The building was impressive, with a high glass roof, a broad concourse and a row of ticket windows. There were departure boards, platform signs and a large clock above the entrance.

There were no tracks.

I walked to the edge of the nearest platform and looked down. Beneath it lay a shallow garden, neatly planted with lavender and small white flowers. A narrow path wound between the beds and disappeared beneath the opposite platform.

A man in a railway uniform stood nearby.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Where are the trains?”

He looked at me with mild surprise.

“Trains?”

“Yes. I thought this was a railway station.”

“It is.”

“But there are no tracks.”

“Not at present.”

“Will they be installed?”

He considered this.

“That depends on whether anyone needs them.”

I looked towards the departure board. It was full of destinations, but every departure was marked ON TIME.

“Where do these trains go?”

“Wherever they're expected.”

“And when do they arrive?”

“When they're needed.”

I decided that the man was either a philosopher or a railway employee who had been in the job too long.

I walked along the platform.

There were several passengers waiting. An elderly woman held a birdcage. A young man was reading a book with no title. A little girl was drawing circles on the floor with a piece of chalk.

None of them seemed concerned by the absence of trains.

I sat beside the elderly woman.

“Have you been waiting long?” I asked.

She looked at the birdcage.

“Not as long as he has.”

The cage was empty.

“Who are you expecting?”

“My brother.”

“Is he arriving by train?”

She smiled.

“He always does.”

I looked at the empty cage again.

“Does he have a bird?”

“He used to.”

She returned to watching the platform.

A bell rang.

The passengers stood up.

I looked towards the tracks, but there was nothing there. The departure board changed. A destination appeared, then another, then a third. Finally the whole board went blank.

The little girl stopped drawing.

“It's coming,” she said.

“What is?” I asked.

She pointed towards the garden.

The flowers were moving.

Not in the wind. They were bending towards one another, their stems reaching across the beds until the white flowers touched. The lavender leaned over them, and the whole garden seemed to gather itself into a single shape.

Then I heard a sound.

A distant rumbling, followed by the familiar rhythm of wheels over rails.

I looked down.

The garden had become a railway line.

A train emerged from beneath the opposite platform. It was very old, with wooden carriages and brass fittings. It moved slowly, without a driver, and came to a stop beside us.

The doors opened.

The elderly woman stood up.

“That's him,” she said.

She stepped into the carriage.

I could see no one inside, but she appeared to be speaking to someone.

The doors closed.

The train departed, passing through the garden without disturbing a single flower.

The tracks disappeared.

The woman was gone.

I turned to the railway employee.

“What just happened?”

He adjusted his cap.

“Your train hasn't arrived yet.”

“But that train—”

“Was hers.”

I looked at the departure board. It had begun to display destinations again.

One of them was the town I had been trying to leave.

I pointed to it.

“Is that my train?”

The man shook his head.

“Not necessarily.”

“Why not?”

“Because you haven't decided where you're going.”

I looked at the board.

The town's name had disappeared.

In its place was a single word:

ELSEWHERE

I walked to the end of the platform, where a narrow passage led beneath the station building. It opened into a waiting room with a fireplace and several armchairs. A man sat beside the fire, reading a newspaper.

“Are there trains here?” I asked.

He lowered the newspaper.

“Not usually.”

“Then how do people leave?”

He looked at the empty fireplace.

“Some of them don't.”

I sat opposite him.

“Do you live here?”

He smiled.

“I'm waiting for my house.”

I looked at the newspaper. Its pages were covered with railway timetables, but the destinations were all names of people.

I recognised one.

It was mine.

“Why is my name on that?”

The man folded the paper.

“Because you've been here before.”

“I haven't.”

“Not this time.”

He returned to reading.

I stood up and went back to the platform.

The little girl was still there, drawing circles on the floor. Her drawing had grown into a complicated pattern of intersecting lines, loops and spirals. It looked rather like a railway map.

“What are you drawing?” I asked.

“A way home.”

“Where is home?”

She looked up.

“Wherever someone is waiting.”

I watched her add another line to the pattern.

“Does it go anywhere?”

She nodded.

“Everywhere.”

I thought about the woman and her brother, the empty birdcage, the man waiting for his house.

Perhaps the station was not a place where trains arrived and departed. Perhaps it was a place where people found what they had been waiting for, though not always in the form they expected.

I was still thinking about this when the railway employee approached.

“Your train is ready,” he said.

I looked around.

There were still no tracks.

“Where is it?”

He pointed towards the garden.

The flowers had moved apart, revealing a narrow path. At its end stood a door, painted blue.

I walked towards it.

“Is this the way out?” I asked.

The man nodded.

“Where does it go?”

“Home, I expect.”

I opened the door.

Beyond it was the road I had been following earlier. The town lay in the distance, and the afternoon sun was beginning to set.

I stepped outside.

When I turned around, the station had disappeared.

There was no building, no platform, no garden. Only a small wooden sign beside the road.

It read:

THE STATION THAT HAD NO TRAINS

Beneath the name, someone had written:

All departures are subject to the arrival of someone else.

I looked back towards the town.

A little girl was standing on the road, holding a piece of chalk.

She looked at me.

“Are you going somewhere?” she asked.

I considered the question.

“I think so.”

She smiled and drew a small circle on the ground.

“Then I'll wait here,” she said.

I walked on.

Behind me, I heard the sound of a train arriving.