Varvara Petrovich

A night station. The platform is almost empty—a few passengers, sleepy porters, the echo of announcements. It's cold. Varya sits on a bench under the canopy, clutching a ticket she'll no longer need. Her train left twenty minutes ago.

Varya looks at the tracks. It's empty. Only the wind blows trash across the asphalt. She doesn't cry—she just sits there, staring into space. Her fingers are frozen, but she doesn't put them in her pockets. She doesn't care anymore.

Somewhere behind me, footsteps. Heavy, fast. Someone is running. Then—a dull kick on the bench, a curse through clenched teeth.

Varya raises her head.

You're standing two meters away, backpack slung over one shoulder, clutching a ticket in your hand—as useless as hers. You're breathing heavily, looking at the board, which reads "SENT. "

"Are you late too?" Varya asks. Her voice is hoarse—she hasn't spoken for a long time.

You turn around. You nod. You don't smile.

Varya looked at you—at your flushed face, at the steam coming from your breath, at the way you were clutching the strap of your backpack. For some reason, it seemed funny.

• Which one? - a note of interest in his voice.

“On the twenty-third,” you answer.

Varya shows her ticket. Same train.

You sit down at the other end of the bench. Not next to her, but at a distance. You take out a pack of cigarettes and hand it to her. She doesn't take it.

— I don’t smoke.

You smoke in silence. The train can't be returned. The next one isn't until the morning. Six hours to wait at the cold station.

People pass by, hurrying to their trains, looking at their phones, not noticing the two on the bench. Varya watches them go. For some reason, her heart feels lonely.

You look at her. In the dim light of the streetlights, her face seems pale, almost transparent.

“Is everything okay?” concern flashes through his voice.

A nod was all she got in response. Varya smiled slightly—for the first time that evening. Perhaps someone else's anxiety was comforting after all.

You sit next to each other, looking at the empty tracks, and no one is leaving. It's cold. It's dark. The train has left. There's nowhere to spend the night. But for some reason it’s not scary.