My hands, cold, shook with fear. A room of people in silence, sincere. Afraid to speak or anticipating the consequences of chances and times. The train is coming.

I looked at a man, manifesting the ideas in his head, people’s legs shake, missing a loved one they won’t meet. Black, grey, red, and black again.

The old man mumbled to himself, holding his head. His hair is an evil scientist imitation. His eyes were red, bulging, and hostile.

“He’s been here his whole life, you know,” I turned.

A nicely groomed boy, wearing all black, eyes filled with endless dreams and hope. I took another look at the room, cracked walls, running mice, a loud background, yet as silent as judgment day.

The fearful feeling can be sensed from afar. The train station door was left ajar, no ticket booth, no guard.

“He was wondering if he should take his chances or not; he’s always reconciling.” The boy narrated the man’s life.

“The most important and most successful train stations abroad, no ticket, no planning, no money needed. A train to success, people say from there.” The boy continued.

Despite the benefits from the ride, old rusted medal bars, wooden benches with chipped paint, were overflowing with vacancy. Few people were here, and the people who were here seemed nervous, stressed, blinded by their own thoughts, selfish for the moment. Like waiting for exam papers to return.

“The train only comes if it wants.” The Boy laid back. Unlike the rest of the passengers, he was relaxed, and managed, his doe eyes were content.

“It may come tomorrow, next week, next year, it chooses who it wants, and how often to fly by.”

My bags were secure, and suddenly the eerie news made me smile. A blasting noise came from afar, a whistle, the winds changed, and all the eyes and backs which were hunched over the floor are now shot up straight.

The old man continued to mumble, louder this time, aggressively shaking.

“This is my stop, it might be yours too.”

He paused, speculated, and looked up again.

“It might not, who knows what the future might hold, take your chances, chances to success.”

The train was coming, and I was ready. I looked at the old man, his face weary, but eyes vicious in doubt.

“How about him?” I asked the boy for the first time.

“He’ll never get on, he’s just too scared.” The boy kept a smile, the same one since the beginning.

“He wants to go, but he doesn’t want to fail, “ he finished.

“But he can’t succeed if doesn’t take his chance?” I asked, confused.

It dawned on me that there are risks, and unavoidable failures. This path was risky, too dangerous. I sat back down on the bench thinking out loud, rededicating my time.

“There isn’t much time left,” he answered my thoughts. “It’s a shame you want to be more like him, the train won’t stop, it will only zoom by today, running behind schedule.”

His smile turned to a regular composure as he checked his pocket watch.

“He likes seeing the chance fly by, he feels a wash of relief, you’ll see, he wants to know that it’s too late.”

The boy was persistent, yet his face resembled a child, begging to go to the beach, to not miss his chance. I stood up again, feeling torn apart, gamble earning the success, or the gamble, of dismal loss and faliare.

“You can never know for sure.”

The boys hair stayed smooth, fixed, untouched, his clothes straight, his body unmoved by the spiraling wind which contradicted the suffering of everyone wrapping up their coats.

“Tick tock, goes the clock,” he shouted over the incoming train.”

I sat down noticing the stakes, and besides me the old man.

“You never know when it will come again, his didn’t come for the last ten years.”

The boy acquiesced and turned reluctantly towards the train. Others followed his lead and slowly rose.

But most stayed, most didn’t notice the train.

It wasn’t their chance yet; it wasn’t their time.

The old man looked under pressure; his hostility was not only to himself but to the train. A dark shadow towered over the disheveled station, flying in a blur. The boy held to a handle and looked at me, ashamed, before he zoomed away with the cart. My heart beat faster, each cart that flew, two, three, four.

I looked again at the old man, his lonely state, hostility, shaking nerves; this wasn’t my destiny.

It won’t be, I won’t let it be. The last cart was zooming past me. I let go of everything in my hands and grabbed the last handle. My fingers slipped, and I braced for ground impact. But a hand braced my wrist, and I shut my eyes tight. When I opened them, I was in a cabin cart.

Calm, still.

The boy looked pleased, yet not surprised. The elegance of the train surpassed that of the station. It was uncommon, unreasonable to keep a station so untidy as the face of their company, perhaps, … unusual.

“Who’s the old man?”

Something told me he knew. I didn’t waste time thanking him.

“Mr. Rastinate,” the boy answered stoically. “ Mr. Proc Rastinate.”

He was profoundly disappointed in his words. And the man out the window, ashamed, then temporarily relieved. Glad the opportunity passed, he lies to himself again and again, “I tried, I came to sense.”

I could hear him think. The boy stood apart from me and gave a wave.

“I’ve taken you this far, you can do the rest.” He took careful steps back to the door of the train, where everything is blurred from the high speed.

“Cherry O,” he smiled, taking his hat down in respect and taking another step back, falling confidently out of the speeding train. 

There was no fall, no body at the tracks as I looked down.

I was speaking with time.