The Old Man at the Station

The platform wakes with the morning sun. Commuters spill in - heels clicking, greetings thrown, silences shared. An old man sits alone on a bench, unmoving, watching it all unfold. Trains thunder past in gusts of wind and steel. Time flows. Lunchtime crowds chatter, children race home from school, evening workers drift by. The old man stays, steady amid the motion. Darkness falls. The rush thins to trickles, the lights buzz faintly. One last train comes and goes. The platform empties. He shifts, maybe steps away for a moment - but returns. Hours slip by. Shadows stretch and fold. Midnight hums low and lonely. Still he sits. By dawn, the station begins to breathe again. Footsteps return. Another day begins. And the old man remains, a quiet sentinel, watching the rhythm repeat.