The train always arrives late, but the waiting is honest

It’s 10:30 PM and I’m sitting on the platform with my coat collar turned up, watching the tracks hum in the dark. The 10:25 never came—again—but something about the silence between trains feels like a kind of prayer. Not for arrival, but for stillness. I used to think doubt was a failure of faith. Now I wonder if it’s just the way the light falls when you’re not sure what comes next.