The Station Where Time Took a Break
A Missingsincethursday Love Story — Part Ten
The Platform of Stillness
It wasn’t on any map.
The train just stopped there one evening without warning — a small, forgotten station buried under layers of fog and silence. The lights flickered weakly, as if unsure whether to stay awake. She stepped off the last carriage, her footsteps echoing on the empty platform. There was no announcement, no schedule board, no people. Only a clock above the entrance, frozen at 7:42 — the minute the world must have decided to pause. She stood beneath it for a while, feeling the weight of stillness wrap around her. The air smelled faintly of iron and rain, the scent of endings that never learned how to end.
The Waiting Room
Inside the station, there were rows of old wooden benches, their varnish long worn away. On one of them, a grey hoodie was folded neatly, dry despite the humidity. She recognized the stitching immediately — small, deliberate letters near the wrist that read: Still Here. She smiled. Another echo from Missingsincethursday, resting quietly in a place the world had forgotten. Sitting down beside it, she noticed something strange — faint words carved into the wood of the bench. “Wait here. The next train carries memories.” It didn’t sound like a warning. It sounded like a promise.
The Conductor
A figure appeared in the distance, walking along the tracks with the slow grace of someone who’d stopped measuring time. He wore a dark coat, a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, and in his hand, a small brass whistle. When he spoke, his voice was calm — the kind of calm that only comes after knowing both loss and peace. “You missed the last train,” he said. “Or maybe it missed you.” She tilted her head. “Does it matter?” He smiled. “Not really. Here, time takes a break. People don’t leave until they’re ready.”
The Clock That Breathed
As they talked, the frozen clock above the platform began to tick again — slowly, unevenly, as though remembering how. Each second felt heavier than it should have been, stretching, folding into itself. “It doesn’t keep time,” the conductor said, noticing her gaze. “It keeps feelings. Every time someone waits here, it remembers.” She looked closer and saw small etchings along the clock’s frame — initials, dates, and short phrases. One of them read: “Met her again in the rain.” Another: “Still Thursday.” It was clear now — this place wasn’t abandoned. It was alive with every pause that had ever mattered.
The Train of Memories
A faint vibration shook the ground. In the distance, she saw headlights cutting through the fog — not harsh, but soft, golden, almost tender. The train approached without sound, its reflection shimmering across puddles like a moving dream. When the doors slid open, the air smelled like old film and rain-soaked pages. Inside, every seat was taken — not by people, but by their echoes. Shadows of those who had once missed something, someone, or themselves. And every one of them wore something from Missingsincethursday, as if the brand had stitched its way into time itself.
The Journey Within
She stepped aboard, heart steady but uncertain. The train moved slowly, gliding through a tunnel of mist that looked more like thought than space. Outside the window, cities blurred into memories — a café on a rainy street, a letter folded into a hoodie pocket, a photograph half-lit by candlelight. It wasn’t a journey through distance. It was a journey through feeling. For every stop the train passed, she felt lighter, as if leaving behind one layer of silence at a time. She whispered softly, “Still Thursday,” and the window fogged slightly, as if answering.
The Message on the Seat
When she sat down, she noticed a small piece of paper taped to the seat in front of her. The handwriting was familiar — curved, patient, real. It said: “You are not late. You are exactly where the waiting led you.” Beneath it, the small printed signature: Missingsincethursday. She smiled to herself, realizing that this brand had stopped being just a name a long time ago. It had become a place — a refuge for anyone who ever paused in the middle of a sentence and didn’t know how to finish it.
The Arrival
The train slowed, the mist outside beginning to thin. She stepped off onto another platform — identical, yet somehow different. The clock here was moving, but slowly, like a heartbeat at rest. On the far wall, painted in silver-gray letters, was a message that shimmered under the low light: “Every Thursday leads somewhere.” She took a deep breath, feeling warmth rise in her chest. Maybe this was the point — not escaping time, but learning to stand beside it.
The Departure
When she looked back, the train was already gone, leaving only the faint sound of its echo fading into rain. She touched the cuff of her sleeve, tracing the familiar stitching with her thumb. The words felt alive beneath her skin — the same quiet reminder that had carried her through cities, storms, and silence. She began walking again, each step steady, unhurried. Somewhere behind her, the clock struck once — not to mark the hour, but to say remember.
And beneath the whispering rain, she repeated it like a prayer:
Still here. Still breathing. Still Missingsincethursday.