The Spare Seat

I missed the last train.

There was nothing dramatic about it. The doors closed, the carriages moved away, and the platform became a long dark place with rain tapping at the glass.

I should have gone outside and found some other way home. Instead, because the rain was heavy, I stayed in the waiting room.

No one else was there. The clock on the wall kept working as if it had not noticed the day was over.

After a while, I saw a small slip of paper on the single chair by the window.

“Spare seat.”

I thought someone had left it there as a joke. But when I picked up the paper, a faint light came from the seat beneath it. A narrow display was set into the plastic, about the size of an old ticket.

It said:

“Storing one unused return for today.”

I did not understand what that meant.

Still, the chair looked warmer than the others. My coat was wet. My legs were tired. I sat down.

The sounds in the room dropped by one layer.

Rain, a crossing bell somewhere far away, the wheels of a cleaner’s cart, all of it seemed to fold inward. In its place, other versions of the evening passed through me.

The version in which I caught the previous train.

The version in which I bought an umbrella before the rain began.

The version in which I sent someone a message saying, “I’m heading home,” and then actually did.

None of those lives were important. But each one seemed a little lighter than this one.

The display lit again.

“Restore this return?”

There were no buttons for yes or no.

Instead, another slip of paper slid from under the seat. It was the same size as the first one, but the words were different.

“Spare seats are kept for people who have not gone home yet.”

I stood up.

The rain was still falling. No train was coming.

But when I walked toward the exit, the chair creaked behind me.

I turned around.

No one was sitting there. Only the paper had bent slightly on the empty seat, as if someone had taken my place and was waiting for the way home I had missed.