The train hurtled through the night, its rhythmic clatter a ghostly echo in the dim carriage. Dusk had swallowed the sleepy town of Wellingford whole, and as the locomotive carried Eleanor away, it seemed to drag her backward through time—into a past she’d buried long ago. The conductor eyed her with muted curiosity, as if her face held the faintest trace of something familiar—a smudged polaroid from another life, perhaps, or the tail end of a conversation left unfinished.
“Upper bunk?” the woman asked, though Eleanor’s ticket was already crumpled in her palm, the words more an invitation to speak than a question.
“Yes,” Eleanor murmured. “Seat twenty-two.”
The carriage was near empty, thick with the scent of metal, cheap tea, and the weight of strangers’ lives—heavy as an October downpour. She tossed her rucksack onto the bunk, careless, as though objects had long since lost their meaning. Frayed jeans, a faded denim jacket, hair scraped into a hasty ponytail. Thirty-eight years old, and yet the last year had worn her down to a shadow of the woman she’d been. Her eyes betrayed exhaustion, the kind that leaves no energy for anything beyond the necessities.
She was going home—for the first time in eight years. Not for a wedding, not for love, but because her mother had died. Suddenly. A stroke. Like something from a bad telly drama where no one knows what to say. Except in those stories, people find the right words; Eleanor had none. No explanations, no certainty that this journey was even necessary.
They hadn’t spoken in three years. Her mother had never accepted her leaving—couldn’t stomach Eleanor’s new life, solitary but true. “Reckless,” she’d called it, judging every choice. And Eleanor couldn’t forgive the silence—cold as frost, just as unyielding. Their connection had dwindled to stiff Christmas cards and awkward phone calls that always ended too soon. And now—nothing. No chance to explain, no final words, no hope of reconciliation.
Eleanor slumped by the window, unscrewed her thermos, poured bitter coffee that scalded her tongue. It was the only thing anchoring her to the present. The train lurched forward, and beyond the glass, the grey March countryside of England blurred past—dull, endless, like her own circling thoughts. The world outside was smudged, familiar yet impossible to grasp. The train wasn’t just moving along tracks; it was tunnelling through her past, pausing at memories she’d locked away.
On the lower bunk sat a girl—nineteen, maybe—clad in battered Converse and a cropped denim jacket, neon headphones clamped over her ears. She cracked open a can of lemonade with a sharp hiss, as if the sound were some private ritual. Crunching on crisps, her gaze flicked between the window and Eleanor, studying her like a puzzle. Finally, she broke the silence.
“Where you headed?” Her voice was bright, almost cheeky, but there was warmth there—the kind that recognises pain without flinching.
Eleanor stiffened. A simple question, but it carried an earnestness that made her want to retreat.
“A funeral,” she said flatly, as though carving the words from her ribs.
The girl’s face softened. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Someone close?”
Eleanor hesitated. The word *mother* lodged in her throat like a stone. She could’ve answered straight away, but something in her demanded a pause—as if saying it aloud would make the grief more real.
“My mum,” she rasped at last.
The girl nodded, her eyes glinting with understanding. She leaned forward slightly, as though trying to shoulder some of the weight. After a beat, she held out the lemonade.
“Want some? Sharp as hell, but it wakes you up. Always helps on trains, especially when everything out there looks so bleak.”
Eleanor laughed—a short, startled sound—for the first time in weeks. It vanished as quickly as it came, a brief spark in the dark. She took the can, sipped. The drink was bracing, almost cruel, but it tasted like childhood—stolen sodas from the fridge, sticky fingers, her mother calling her in for tea.
“Thanks,” she said. “Helps more than you’d think.”
They lapsed into silence, but it was comfortable, like an old jumper—itchy but warm. The carriage hummed around them: someone played a tinny video, voices spilling *”you ruined everything,” “I can’t do this,”* tangled with the train’s steady clatter. A baby fussed, bags rustled. The train carried them all forward, but each passenger was bound for their own private reckoning.
By nightfall, Eleanor dug out an old photo from her rucksack—yellowed at the edges, one corner dog-eared. Her, her mother, and their tabby Marmalade. Eleanor in a ridiculous bobble hat, her mother smiling, Marmalade squinting in the sun. She’d been ten, and back then, she’d thought happiness was eternal. Marmalade had died when she was fifteen. She’d sobbed, raged, blamed herself. Her mother had simply sat beside her, placed a hand on her shoulder, and they’d stayed like that—quiet. That night, for the first time, Eleanor had seen her mother cry—not dramatically, not performatively, just quietly, humanly.
“Was she good?” the girl asked softly, catching sight of the photo.
Eleanor turned it over in her hands, as if it might summon the past whole.
“She was… real. Stubborn, sometimes sharp. But honest. And I think that’s what matters.”
“Wish I’d had a mum like that,” the girl murmured, turning her face to the wall as if the words weren’t meant to be heard.
The train raced through the dark. Eleanor didn’t sleep—just stared at the ceiling where shadows from passing streetlamps flickered. She wondered: should she have left so abruptly? Should she have called, texted, tried? Was there still time to fix things? But life doesn’t deal in full stops—only commas. As the wheels thrummed beneath her, she finally slept, letting the memories and the hurt surface at last.
At dawn, stepping onto the platform, Eleanor paused. She’d meant to leave the photo behind—like a used ticket—but something stopped her. You can’t discard memory, even when it cuts. The picture weighed heavy in her pocket, a reminder that not everything was lost.
The conductor watched her go.
“Good luck,” she said, weary but not unkind.
“And to you,” Eleanor replied. “Safe travels.”
Ahead lay Wellingford—a town that had once known her childhood, now strange as a faded watercolour. The flat would be unchanged: books on the shelves, the same curtains, the lingering smell of coffee in the kitchen. All of it still there. All of it, except one person.
Maybe, among the dust and old things, there’d be conversation—with neighbours, with silence, with herself. And if not? She’d come anyway. Late, but she’d come. Because sometimes the journey is all you can do. And sometimes, it’s more than it seems. The road brings you back to yourself, even if no one’s waiting at the station.
