Story
L'Attente
Not startedMargaux entered the station waiting room. The 4 PM train had left without her. Because of a delay on the line, she had missed her connection. Now she had to wait forty-five minutes for the next train.
It was a small provincial station, the same one she had known in the past. The large windows looked out onto empty platforms. The golden light of this late autumn afternoon flooded the room. There was a smell of old wood and diesel, a scent she hadn't smelled for fifteen years.
Margaux gripped the handle of her suitcase. She looked at the departure board. The 5 PM train was on time. She knew this station, these wooden benches, this old board. She knew this city.
She had come for her grandmother's funeral. Fifteen years without returning here. Fifteen years without seeing this station, these streets, these people. She had built her life elsewhere, very far from this city and from Thomas.
She chose a bench near the wall, far from the other travelers. She sat with her back to the windows. She didn't want to look outside. She didn't want to see the city.
Her suitcase was placed beside her. She held the handle very tightly. She looked at the departure board, then her phone, then back at the board. The station was calm. A few travelers waited, absorbed in their thoughts. Margaux was waiting too, but she wasn't thinking about the train time. A voice interrupted her.
"Margaux?"
She looked up. An elderly woman was seated on the neighboring bench, knitting needles in her hands. She was looking at Margaux with a warm smile.
"It is you, isn't it? Margaux Durand?"
Margaux felt her heart accelerate. She knew this face. Madame Dubois. She lived on the neighboring street, in the past. She knew Margaux's grandmother. She knew everyone.
"Hello, Madame Dubois," said Margaux. She forced a smile. "Yes, it's me."
"Margaux Durand! It's been so long!" Madame Dubois placed her knitting on her lap. "I didn't recognize you right away. You've changed. But no, you haven't changed. You're still the same."
Margaux didn't know what to answer. She simply nodded her head.
"You're here for your grandmother's funeral? I was so sorry to hear the news. She was a good woman. Everyone loved her here."
"Thank you," said Margaux. Her voice was calm, but her fingers still gripped the handle of her suitcase. "Yes. That's why I came."
Madame Dubois nodded in approval. There was a moment of silence. Margaux hoped the conversation would stop there. She looked at the departure board. The train was arriving in thirty-two minutes.
"How long has it been now?" asked Madame Dubois. "Fifteen years? Twenty years?"
"Fifteen years," answered Margaux.
"Fifteen years. That's long." Madame Dubois shook her head. "We haven't seen you often here. Do you live far away?"
"In Paris. I work at a communications company."
"Paris! That's a big city. Are you happy there?"
The question surprised Margaux. Happy? She had never thought about this question.
"Yes," she said. "I like my work. I have good colleagues."
But in saying these words, she felt their lightness. Fifteen years summarized in two sentences.
Madame Dubois smiled. "That's good. It's important to be happy." She paused. "Your grandmother was proud of you, you know. She spoke of you often."
Margaux felt something tighten in her chest. She didn't answer. She hadn't thought about her grandmother for a long time. Not really. She had thought about the funeral and the trip. But not about her grandmother.
The silence prolonged. Margaux looked at the window. The golden light now touched the old walls of the station.
"And Thomas," said Madame Dubois, as if it were an ordinary thought. "He still lives here, you know. He took over his father's garage. He seems to be doing well."
The name resonated in her. Thomas. Margaux kept her expression neutral, but she felt her shoulders tense.
"Oh?" she said. That was all she could say.
"Yes. He's a good man. He works hard." Madame Dubois resumed her knitting. "You're lucky to come for the funeral. Maybe you'll see him."
Margaux felt a coldness in her stomach. Seeing Thomas. After fifteen years. After leaving without saying goodbye. After avoiding this city, these streets, this station, for so long.
"I'm only here for the funeral," said Margaux. Her voice was more tense than she would have wanted. "I'm leaving this evening."
"Ah, that's a shame." Madame Dubois nodded her head. "But you'll come back? Now that your grandmother is no longer here... maybe you'll come see the city from time to time."
Margaux looked at her hands. They were no longer gripping the suitcase as tightly. When had that changed?
"Maybe," she said.
But in her head, this word resonated differently. Not like an excuse. Like a possibility.
Then the thought came, clear and simple. A thought she had never wanted to admit. She had stayed away out of fear. Not by choice. Not by indifference. Out of fear.
She breathed. The air of the station was still the same — old wood, diesel, golden light. But something in her had relaxed.
Time seemed to stop. The station was calm. The conversation had stopped by itself. Margaux looked at the golden light on the old walls. An announcement resonated in the station. The train to Paris was arriving on platform number two.
Margaux stood up. She took her suitcase. Its handle seemed lighter in her hand.
"Have a good trip, Margaux," said Madame Dubois. She smiled gently. "It's good to see you again. You should come more often."
"Thank you, Madame Dubois." Margaux surprised herself by speaking. Her voice was warmer than before. "Maybe I will come back."
She crossed the platform. The autumn wind was cool on her face. She boarded the train and found a seat near the window.
The train began to move. Slowly at first, then faster. The station slid behind her. The old walls, the golden windows, the bench where Madame Dubois continued knitting.
Margaux looked through the window. The city scrolled by — the streets she had known, the familiar buildings, the places that were part of her past. Thomas was somewhere in this city. Her grandmother was no longer there.
And she? She was leaving again. But this time, it was different. She wasn't fleeing.
On the train, she thought about Thomas. About her grandmother. About the fifteen years. And then, simply, she thought: maybe next time. Maybe she will stay longer. Maybe she will call Thomas. Maybe she will stop being afraid.
The train moved forward into the autumn evening. Margaux looked at the landscape. She didn't know what was going to happen. But for the first time in a long time, she wasn't afraid of not knowing.