Two Strangers
At first, Edward thought the woman opposite him was simply lost in thought. Perhaps weary. She gazed out the train window, as travellers often do—without purpose, just to avoid looking within. Then he noticed—she was crying.
Silently. Without sobs or shudders. Only a delicate handkerchief trembled in her fingers as though weighted with all her grief, and her shoulders quivered faintly to the rhythm of the rails. The train rolled southward, slow and heavy, as if aware that its carriage bore not just luggage but something far heavier. The glass shuddered with her breath, as though the journey itself knew her pain was unbearable.
Edward sat across from her, a laptop resting on his knees. He ought to finish his report, send it by day’s end. For the fifth time, he read the same sentence without grasping its meaning. His eyes lingered on her. People wept for many reasons—anger, guilt, betrayal—but hers was different. Quiet. Exhausted. The sort of tears shed when someone, after years of holding pain inside, finally lets go. And in letting go, cries not for the loss itself but for how long she carried it alone.
He had no intention of intruding. Oughtn’t to. Yet when her handkerchief slipped to the floor, he bent to retrieve it—slowly, carefully, as though returning not just a scrap of cloth but a fragment of lost dignity.
“Pardon me… are you alright?”
She lifted her eyes—grey-green, clear as an April shower. She met his gaze without flinching, and in that steadiness, there was strength.
“Forgive me,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to… disturb you.”
“You didn’t,” he replied. “Only… it was so sudden. Like someone muted the world, then turned the sound back on in a different place. It was… honest.”
She nodded. A faint smile touched her lips. After a pause, she spoke again.
“I’m going to a funeral. My mother’s. To a house I haven’t set foot in since I was twenty-two.”
Edward nodded slowly. He said nothing, but his expression softened. Warmer. Calmer. He sensed she needed to speak. And perhaps, for the first time in years, she was unafraid of being heard.
“We quarrelled terribly,” she went on. “Foolishly, cruelly. I told her she was no mother to me. She said I was no longer her daughter. We both believed it. Never imagined ‘never’ could someday mean forever.”
He lowered his gaze. Her words held no accusation—only a quiet truth. Pain tempered by time.
“I’m going. Don’t know why. Maybe to take something. Or to leave something behind. Or… just to understand that nothing can be undone. All these years, I carried a stone inside me. Thought it mattered. Now I don’t even know why. Perhaps to lay it on her grave. Or finally let it go and walk on.”
The train plunged into a tunnel. Darkness swallowed them for a breath before daylight returned—and there she was, looking at him properly, as if only now daring to meet his eyes.
“And you? Where are you going?”
He gave a faint, dry laugh. Hesitated.
“To sign divorce papers.”
“Just like that?”
“Almost. Far from here, where we used to live. There are still photographs, dishes, books. I’m afraid to look. Because in them, we’re still together. And we haven’t been those people for a long time.”
She nodded, slow and deep, as if she understood beyond words.
“Trains are all the same, aren’t they?” he said quietly. “But each carries someone different. For some—pain. For others—release. The tracks seem to lead somewhere, but sometimes all they offer is time to think.”
They fell silent. The quiet between them was rich, not empty—a space, not a pause. The train raced past grey villages, rusted barns, dormant fields. Yet they stood still—within themselves, within their fates.
“Have you ever… regretted?” she asked, not looking at him.
“Of course,” he answered. “Mostly not the things I did. The words I didn’t say. When I could have. When I should have. Always think there’ll be more time. But it slips away faster than courage.”
She turned back to the window. He watched her reflection. In the glass, their faces blurred, smudged, merging into a single watercolour. Strangers, yet in that carriage, in that moment, closer than many ever grow.
“I always thought,” she said softly, “that when you share your sorrow, it lightens a little. As if it steps outside you, stops being yours alone. Settles elsewhere. Presses less.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “You’ve helped me. More than you know.”
The train slowed. Their stop. The screech of brakes sounded mournful, as if it, too, resisted parting.
They stepped onto the platform together. He carried her bag, returning it at the edge. Around them, shouts, bustle, strangers hurrying. None of it touched them now.
“Thank you,” she said. And in her smile was something beyond words.
“And you,” he replied. “For the silence. And the truth.”
They never exchanged names. There was no need. Their words stayed with them—lodged in the chest, the memory, the place a person seldom reaches alone.
When the train pulled away, they walked in opposite directions. Without glancing back. Not because they didn’t wish to, but because the farewell had said enough.
Sometimes, to survive, one meeting is all it takes. One person with whom silence speaks aloud. One journey where you remember—you’re still alive. And can walk on, unburdened at last.