The train was only ten minutes off, the woman behind the front desk told me through a haze of ash colored smoke, her cigarette perched precariously between bright pink lips. (Linda, her name badge read). I found a seat at one of the benches under the overhang, not close enough to be considered anxious, but not far enough away to miss seeing the passengers step off the train.

The bench seemed unstable to me, its splintered wood looking as though it would break in two if given half a chance. I slowly sat, willing it to hold me, at the very least. The air was quiet as if waiting nervously for something to happen and I knew that the graying sky would soon set free its weight. I glanced at the clock. Barely a minute had passed (nine minutes away and it seems like forever) and the idle hope that the train might arrive early was still at the forefront of my mind. I was happy that I had brought something to provide distraction. I pulled out a well-worn book (your favorite, I know) and it comforted me to hold it and know that the same eyes (yours) had beheld the old words as countless times as mine had. I opened to the page I had last stopped, marked so with a letter (your last one), ink smudged from fingertips, edges soft from precise folding, the creases as evidence of the many times that I had read it. The ink was sad and faded where a carefully written date of arrival had once been.

My hair fell over my eyes as I read slowly through every word like I had done since the day I had torn open the envelope, caution only for the gift inside (for once, your book did not draw my attention). The letter was short but not without affection (you were sorry you couldn’t return sooner) and I folded it up one last time, slipping it back into the book. The train would arrive in (I looked at the clock) five minutes, and I would have no need for the letter when the person behind it would soon enough stand before me.

I remembered blue eyes lighting up just because a welcoming smile had the power to make them so, a suitcase held awkwardly (you always hated carrying it), and a hand reaching up to block out the sun (though it wasn’t out today). I saw a favorite blue jacket; travel worn and faded, familiar and comfortable (just like everything else in your life).

I listened once more for the whistle and, not allowing myself to become impatient, I made sure that I had the time of arrival correct (four minutes away). A sudden breeze picked up making a few stray leaves rattle off the side of the platform and I wrapped my coat tighter around to keep out any stray chill, blowing into my hands just to pass the time. Surely the rain would wait until after the train pulled in (you never liked the rain). Two minutes left and I craned my neck to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of anything moving this way (you would be here any moment). The time was exact and I knew I should be able to hear something, anything, at this moment. One minute past and I breathed in and leaned back into my seat, sighing because I knew the train had been late many times before.

Every year I would sit in this same station, this same bench, waiting for the same person, so when it finally started to rain (and you did not show up), I did not wonder what had happened to the train. I already knew.

The station had been closed for years now and the train would never come. The ticket window was shuttered tight, the woman behind it long gone, cobwebs growing in the corners, the spiders taking up the vacancy that had been left for them. I sat there while the water drenched me, the wind pushing it under the shelter of the overhang, still waiting, and I knew I would return again next year because just maybe, maybe, the train would finally make it back on time.