Shade of Shadows

The rain had been falling gently for hours now, as if it had been freed from a cage and had all the time in the world to pour. I’d been sitting in the railway station’s waiting room for almost half an hour. A single, dim light barely clung to life in one corner, its dying bulb nearing its last breath. It was ten o’clock at night. My train, yet again, was a victim of life’s sluggishness—delayed by three hours.

The cold was intense, but the waiting room felt even colder. Perhaps I was the only passenger alone at the station tonight. There was no hustle, no bustle, not a single face in sight.

A cup of tea rested before me. Cold and tea shared a perfect harmony. The hot tea is a strange thing—while warm, it connects you to memories; once cold, it merely leaves you with a lingering feeling. Sometime, like the roar of the wind would break the silence’s spell, shattering that entanglement. I don’t know why, but I’ve always feared sentience, like a chain, has become a yoke around my neck. Annoyed by the wind’s arrogance, I still took sips of my tea.

.

Suddenly, the waiting room door opened. A woman entered, dragging her suitcase. Her shawl was damp and askew, clinging to her as if she’d just battled the intensified rain, and her suitcase, visibly moist, trailed behind her. She looked around—the light was already very scarce, with only a single bulb burning near me.

She slowly moved closer, keeping her distance placed her handbag beside her and quietly sat down. I continued sipping my tea while she adjusted her wet shawl, rubbing her cold hands again and again.

At that very moment, a gust of wind tore through the silence a chilly draft swept past, as though an invisible traveler had asked me for directions and moved on.

Within me, unnamed thoughts began to stir a strange curiosity that seemed to rise and walk toward her, and silently ask:

“Who are you? Where have you come from? And where are you headed?”

A strange uneasiness wrapped itself around me, as if the heart were caught in the confusion of some unnamed reason. I was lost in these mysterious thoughts when, suddenly, the woman stood before me.

I stared at her in surprise. I couldn’t understand why the distance that had just been between us now felt so close as if that very distance was now silently staring back into me.

Without uttering a word, she raised her hand slightly, gesturing to ask the time.

I looked at the watch on my wrist and gently replied, “Ten twenty-five.”

She moved her lips and eyes just a little no surprise, no smile just a silent acknowledgment, as though the moment itself had spoken something only we understood.

I gestured for her to sit, and she walked over slowly and quietly took a seat as if she already knew that even a moment without reason could be hiding a reason of its own.

Now, it was time to wait. Some restless voice rose from within me, bouncing off the walls like a caged bird aching to be free.

Her gaze was fixed to the floor cold, unmoving, silent like snow-covered mountains, or those eyes where years of waiting had frozen into stillness.

The room was steeped in a silence so dense, there was no whisper of wind, no ticking of time as if time itself had sat between us, silently observing.

And the silence whispered softly into my ear: “Ask her… maybe the question itself will lead you toward life.”

I: madam, which direction are you headed in? She: "The decision hangs in the balance. I: and your path? Perhaps? She: the same as yours. I: perhaps… it’s an unknown road. She: do you believe in such things? I: I left belief behind long ago at some forgotten turn. She: you seem so despairing. I: “In this very despair, there’s a desire to find some courage.” She: “Where do you intend to go?” I: towards the final destination. She: “Then no intention of returning?”

I: return is only for those who ever wish to go back. She: “When will that final destination arrive?”

The cup of tea before me had turned cold quietly reminding me that this woman was just like me.

A fellow traveler on a path without a name; Where even if a destination exists, reaching it still feels like being far from it.

I poured tea from the thermos, took out another cup, and placed it before her a woman whose name I still did not know.

She remained silent, no expression of gratitude, no surprise. She simply took a sip of the tea, bringing the cup to her lips, and then silently placed it back on the table. I wasn’t surprised either— Perhaps some silent prelude of this familiarity had already been written between us.

I: “You were asking about the final destination?”

She: “Yes, it was just a thought that slipped out.”

I: “In my opinion, everyone certainly has a final destination—perhaps most of us have already passed through it.”

She: “But we are still heading in that direction, aren’t we?”

I: “Yes, some actions are such that we repeat them, saying ‘for the last time,’ and the delight of every ‘last time’ is often agonizing. We endure pain, but agony... that pierces deep within.”

She: “Perhaps you are captive to such a decision from which no door to release ever opens— decision after decision, suffering after suffering, yet your steps remain in the same place.”

I: taking a sip of tea “perhaps you are right. Thank you for recognizing the shape of my suffering.”

She: faintly smiled ” You’ve given language to something unspoken.”

I: “then perhaps a connection has been made between us, after all.”

I: But you still haven’t told me on this silent night, where are you going alone? She: That’s two questions… and both are at unreachable distant. I: Why so? I enquired... She: The first “Alone?” Am I really alone? I: But you arrived here by yourself, and I haven’t seen anyone else around. She: When I was sitting over there… (she gestured toward her earlier seat and luggage) I: Oh… I understand now. She: The second question where am I going? That answer will only reveal itself to you once I’ve gone.

That sentence... It pierced my heart like an old memory whose pain is still fresh. I stood there, caught between the depth of questions and the confusion of answers.

But this moment It felt like one of those rare moments in life, like breathing is to living, this conversation was a mysterious form of calm to my soul.

Me: I don’t quite understand… What do you mean “after you’ve gone”? She: Some words, some relations and perhaps connections… only make sense after they’ve left us.

Her words fell into me like rain on a long desert. They didn’t shock me — they unlocked me.

I sat there, motionless — not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because everything I wanted to say had become too heavy. Her presence, her gaze, her deep calm voice — they all became mirrors. In them, I saw my lonely shadow, and suddenly vanished;

But I said nothing; Because sometimes, the deepest feelings don’t ask to be spoken. They simply sit with you, quietly — like she was now — and make you feel the weight of everything you once failed to understand… until now.

I: glancing at my watch; I still have about two hours left. But I don’t know how much time you have; Who leaves first perhaps not even time knows that?

She: I will be the one to leave first, only a short while left.

I: So, your train is arriving before mine? She: Yes, maybe two hours or less remain and it’s possible that we both depart at the same time but in opposite directions.

I: That’s like the separation of East and West two paths diverging at the same moment, yet toward completely different ends.

And within these two hours, a feeling had emerged between us... something too difficult to wrap in words.

At that moment, the clouds roared fiercely, the wind shook the fragile old walls, and that flickering light bulb the only light in the room finally went out.

Now, darkness prevailed. Not only around us, but also within us as if it had entered our hearts, becoming breath itself.

We both sat in that darkness, quietly sensing each other’s presence as if silence itself had taken the form of dialogue.

I: are you alright? She: yes… I feel somehow better now. It’s as if a dream, long bound in chains, is now being slowly set free.

I: madam, this isn’t a dream. the power has gone out, the rain is falling hard, and we are sitting here, voiceless, in the dark.

She: Are you afraid of the dark? I: No, darkness, light, shadows they’re all signs of life, each has its own completeness, its own beauty in its time.

and then… suddenly, the light returned. faint, but there, like a lost moment, finding its way back.

She: There, your light has returned. She smiled softly.

I: and perhaps your tea has gone cold. I smiled;

I picked up the thermos, poured fresh tea into both cups, and placed one before her.

I: This tea arrangement… it’s quite thoughtful. Me: It felt like you’d be my guest today.

She: smiling, after a pause, and said; as if a feeling hidden in a corner of the heart silently, but alive just made itself known.

I: I, too, carry something like that inside me a nameless presence that’s been with me for years. It never spoke… but today, it feels like it wants to rebel against its own silence.

I lifted the cup to my lips. and her eyes they were fixed on my face, unblinking.

She: softly spoke, perhaps you’ve embraced this rebellion a bit too soon.

I: half of my life has already passed. and in that half, a feeling grew first, just a blur, then it matured in childhood’s innocence, gained intensity with youth, and I… I just kept passing through.

like time, like silence. There was a distinct difference between me and her. Now, perhaps in the desire to erase that difference, this feeling... had begun to rebel.

The shawl in which I had hidden her for years was still pure, clean, and unblemished but for how long? How long could I keep hiding? How long could I carry this burden?

A thought emerged In the end, only one of us would remain.

She, in complete stillness, resting her elbows on the table, her face in the palms of her hands, sat motionless, intently listening.

It felt as though her dreams were pouring out through her eyes, gazing deep into my soul. I had to convince myself this is just a dream... not reality.

As my scattered senses reached out for grounding, I spoke again:

Me: “perhaps I’ve gone too far. My words must feel heavy and meaningless to you. I’m sorry...”

(I fell silent.)

Now I looked at her with questioning eyes but she remained quiet, as if her silence itself was the answer.

A few moments passed like that, as though a river flowed quietly between two shores, without sound, without announcement.

Those moments wrote such peace as if centuries of noise had been wrapped in a shroud and fallen asleep.

That feeling... which had risen in rebellion, now seemed to hang like a nameless soul on a silent crucifix.

Time passed when, and in which direction we had no idea.

We remained paused on a static page of an old book, where silence itself was the writing.

Then... the whistle of the train dragged us back into the reality of time and space.

We, who had been lost in the story of moments, suddenly returned to our real world.

She: (suddenly speaking) “Perhaps my train has arrived Let me go check.”

She quickly stood up, hurried toward the door, the rumble of the train was now unmistakable.

She had stepped outside. Moments later, she returned a certain decision glowing on her face.

She: “my train has arrived... meeting you brought a strange peace, as if some unknown guardian had always been near quietly watching over me.”

I was struck dumb. The words on my tongue froze in place. I couldn’t say a thing.

She quickly grabbed her suitcase, rushed toward the door, and I... just kept watching her go, unable to move.

Another train whistle blew I startled and stood up, looked toward the door She, who had once been a stranger, was now leaving behind countless familiarities.

She was boarding the train. On the steps at the door, she turned once to look at me.

Her shawl had slipped from her head. I stood soaked in the rain motionless and she... disappeared silently behind the door.

The train whistled again and slowly began to crawl forward I remained standing there. Between the fog, the rain, and the silence… there was only me, and no one else not her, not the train, not even that moment. Only a faint trace of memory, slowly dissolving into the rain.

I don’t know how many unseen steps crushed me as they passed, carrying me back in the shadow of silence to the waiting room. I came and sat down on the same old, worn-out chair as if nothing had happened, and yet everything had changed.

A question echoed in my mind again and again: What was all this? Am I myself just a dream? Or merely a reality that passed by like a dream?

I rested my head against the back of the chair, and stared up at the ceiling, as if it were about to speak, or maybe hiding everything in silence.

Suddenly, thunder roared a loud, terrifying crack shook the depths of my heart it felt as if lightning had entered my soul and stripped every secret bare.

And then… a familiar fragrance wrapped me in its soft veil. Yes truly, I recognized that scent the very same one that had been here moments ago with that mysterious presence.

I slowly lowered my head. My eyes fell on the empty teacup before me and I sensed something placed beneath it. Eagerly, I reached out, slid the cup aside and found a folded piece of paper underneath.

As if a fleeting moment was about to reveal its secret to me. I quickly unfolded it.

The writing was brief just a date… and a time:

December 5, 1961, 10:00 p.m.

to be continue...