🌌 “The Stranger on Platform Nine” 🚉

It was a foggy winter morning in Delhi. The clock at the railway station struck 9:05 AM. Amid the crowd, a young woman named Aanya, wearing a grey coat and holding a leather-bound journal, stood still on Platform Nine, waiting for her train to Kanpur.

But this wasn't a regular journey.
It was a journey to end a chapter in her life that had long haunted her.

Aanya had just lost her father a month ago. He was a station master, serving Indian Railways for over 30 years. As a child, she would often come to this station with him, fascinated by the sound of whistles, the rhythmic arrival of trains, and the voice that echoed over the speakers. Since his passing, she hadn’t dared to return. Today, she had mustered the courage to come… to relive him… to say goodbye.

As she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, a rough yet gentle voice interrupted her silence:

“Are you waiting for the 9:15 Shatabdi too?”

She turned, slightly startled. Standing next to her was a tall man, wrapped in a dark shawl, with silver hair, aged around sixty. His eyes were mysterious, carrying decades of unspoken stories.

“Yes,” Aanya replied softly, hiding her grief behind a polite smile.

The man nodded and said, “You look like someone who doesn’t belong to this platform... not today at least.”

That strange statement caught her off guard. “What do you mean?”

He looked at her calmly. “Pain has its own platform, its own schedule... and you seem to be stuck between arrivals and departures.”

Aanya was speechless.

They stood there quietly for a moment, the sound of a distant train horn cutting through the thick mist.

Suddenly, he said, “Do you believe in stories told by strangers?”

She looked at him and asked, “Should I?”

The man smiled. “Let me tell you one. You might find a piece of yourself in it.”

She nodded silently, unsure why she was trusting this man. But something about him was oddly comforting.

---

📖 The Story He Told:

“There was once a young boy who loved trains. Every evening, he would sit by the tracks, counting the coaches as they passed. His father worked at the station, and his mother ran a tea stall nearby. Life was simple, full of steam and dreams.

One day, a tragedy struck. A train derailed. The boy’s father was among the victims. From that day on, the boy stopped counting trains. He began counting regrets.

Years passed. The boy grew up. He left the town. He became a writer. But no matter how many books he wrote, he couldn’t write off that memory—his father’s last day on earth.

One winter morning, just like this one, he returned to that very platform. He stood still, holding his father’s old diary. And guess what he found inside it?

A note.

‘Every train takes something away. But sometimes... it also brings something back.’

The boy smiled for the first time in years. Because he realized… his father never left.
He lived in the whistles, the rails, the journals, the people who remember.”

---

Aanya was silent. A lump formed in her throat.

She whispered, “Was that boy… you?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulled out a worn-out brown journal from his bag. It looked exactly like the one Aanya was holding.

She gasped.

Opening it, he handed her a page. It was dated 12th March 1996.

“Today, I met the Station Master of Platform Nine. He gave me advice I will never forget: ‘Trains never really stop, my boy. They pause. And so should you. But always continue your journey.’”

Tears welled up in Aanya’s eyes.

“That’s... my father’s handwriting,” she said trembling.

The man finally said, “Yes. Your father once gave a lost boy the strength to keep moving forward. I never got to thank him. Until today.”

She broke down.

---

The speakers suddenly announced the arrival of the 9:15 Shatabdi. The platform began to fill with people.

But Aanya didn’t care. She was in a timeless moment.

She said, “I didn’t come here just for the train. I came to say goodbye.”

The man looked at her and said, “Then don’t say goodbye. Say thank you. And write his story. Someone out there needs it.”

She nodded.

He smiled and said, “My train is on Platform Ten. I must leave now. But thank you, Aanya. You brought me closure too.”

Before she could say anything else, he walked into the fog. Just like a passing train.

She stood there… feeling lighter. She opened her own journal and wrote:

“Platform Nine didn’t just give me memories today. It gave me a stranger... who reminded me that some platforms are meant for healing.”

---

✨ Epilogue:

Aanya published her first book a year later. It was titled:

“The Stranger on Platform Nine”.

And on the dedication page, she wrote:

“To my father… who lived among trains.
To the stranger… who helped me board mine again.”

🚉❤️