Under the Grey Sky
The train had left, but Eleanor remained standing on the platform. Not because she didn’t know where to go—she simply didn’t know why. In her hands, she clutched a worn supermarket bag, while loose change jingled in her pocket. The air still carried the weight of their goodbye, sharp and lingering, like an autumn wind that refuses to fade.
Her daughter had waved from the carriage window—briefly, almost indifferently. With headphones on and her mind already racing ahead to another city, she’d seemed like a stranger. As the train pulled away, Eleanor kept waiting: surely now she’d turn, smile, wave properly, just like when she was small, her tiny hand pressed against the cold glass. But nothing. Only an empty window flashed past and vanished into the haze, leaving Eleanor alone amid the murmur of unfamiliar voices and the rhythmic clatter of wheels.
She exhaled heavily, as if releasing something irreplaceable with her breath. Moving to a bench at the edge of the platform, she set the bag down. Inside was a thermos—new, gleaming, bought specially for her daughter. *“Mum, you don’t need to,”* she’d said over the phone. But Eleanor couldn’t help it. Her love had always been tangible: a scarf, tinned soup, vitamins, warm socks. Something solid to hold, to pass along, to leave behind. How else could she prove she was still needed? That she hadn’t dissolved into the past, become just a shadow in a room that once echoed with children’s laughter?
The day was gloomy, the sky pressing down, while the wind tugged at the hem of her coat as if urging her onward. Yet Eleanor stayed. She lit a cigarette, drawing slowly, each puff delaying the moment she’d return to her empty flat, where silence rang louder than words and the phone hadn’t stirred in weeks. In her mind, not sentences but fragments spun—half-formed and heavy.
Nearby, the bench creaked as a man sat down. About fifty, with a battered satchel and a bottle of water in hand. He carried the scent of travel, dust, and something faintly familiar—perhaps loneliness. At first, neither spoke.
“Your train?” he asked, eyes fixed on the distance.
“No. My daughter’s.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “I’ve just arrived. To see my dad. Haven’t met in five years, give or take. Always busy, work, life. Then suddenly… something just clicked. Like remembering a debt long overdue.”
Eleanor glanced at him. His face was ordinary, worn with fatigue, but his eyes held a spark—something alive, not yet extinguished. As if he weren’t quite a stranger, more like an old neighbour recognised after years apart.
“You’ve been alone long?” he asked softly.
“Four years. At first, it just felt quieter. Then… empty.” She hesitated. “Sometimes I think of visiting her. But she’s grown now. Her own plans, her own path. I’d just be in the way.”
“Aye,” he sighed. “We always think they need us. Even when they don’t say it. Even when they don’t call. We wait for a text, a word.”
Eleanor nodded, her lips trembling into a faint smile. The cigarette burned down, and she crushed it against the bin’s edge.
“Are you seeing your dad to make peace, or just because?”
“Dunno,” he admitted. “Maybe just to see him. To know he’s still there, breathing. Maybe to hear him say, *‘You’re late, son,’* and then decide whether to stay or go.”
They fell silent. He unscrewed the bottle, took a sip. Without thinking, Eleanor held out her hand—he passed it. The cold water stung her throat. She handed it back.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he murmured, staring at the tracks. “Two strangers sitting here. Yet I feel lighter. Like I’m not alone in this chill.”
“Me too,” she replied. “Like staying wasn’t pointless. No reason, just… something warm.”
He looked at her—properly, for the first time. No words, but in that gaze was more than gratitude. As if all that mattered had already been said, and the rest was noise.
“Take care,” he said, rising.
“Good luck,” she answered. “Don’t be late. Someone might be waiting.”
He walked off, his satchel swaying slightly, as if carrying more than just belongings. And Eleanor stayed. Just a little longer. Sat there, watching where he’d disappeared. Not from sorrow, but to soak in the moment fully, like the last note of a song. Then she stood, picked up her bag, and walked. Not home—first to the river, where the wind chased ripples across the water. Then to a café smelling of fresh pastries and cinnamon. Maybe later, she’d drop by an old friend’s—not because they’d fallen out, just because life had pulled them apart. No reason. Just because she wanted to. Because her heart had given a quiet *thump*, and that was enough to step off the worn path.
Under the grey sky, amid strangers’ lives, there was still warmth to be found. Even for a moment. Even between departing trains. Even in the pauses between silence. And if you listened closely, it was there—soft, but alive.
Perhaps the hardest goodbyes aren’t about letting go, but learning to carry the love forward.
