Story
Le Dernier Train
Not startedMarc Delacroix waits on the station platform. He is fifty-eight years old. He wears a gray raincoat and holds an old leather suitcase. The rain falls gently under the awning. The platform is almost empty. A businesswoman is sitting on a bench near him. She looks at her phone. She looks tired.
Marc looks at the digital clock. The next train to Lyon arrives in thirty minutes. It's the last train of the evening.
The station is quiet. The light is dim. There is a closed ticket window and a few metal benches. At the end of the platform, Marc sees a red mailbox. It is far away, in the shadows.
Marc touches the inside pocket of his coat. He feels the paper under his fingers. It's a letter. He wrote it last evening. He put it in his pocket this morning. He hasn't sent it yet.
The letter is for Élise. Élise was his colleague for twenty years. She retired last year. Marc never told her what he felt.
He touches the letter one more time. Then he looks at the station entrance. Élise won't come. She doesn't know he is here. She doesn't know he wrote this letter.
Marc sits down on a bench. The businesswoman stays near him, but she doesn't look at him. She types on her phone. She's going home.
Marc takes the letter out of his pocket. He looks at it. The paper is white, folded in four. He unfolds the letter carefully. His hands tremble a little.
He reads the first words: "Élise, I must tell you something I should have said a long time ago."
Marc thinks of Élise. He sees her smile again in the teachers' lounge. He remembers a difficult day. That day, Élise had looked at him with kindness. He also remembers her last day at work. She had kissed him on the cheek. But now, he doesn't know where she lives. He doesn't have her phone number.
The announcement echoes through the station: "The train to Lyon arrives in twenty minutes."
Marc looks at the mailbox at the end of the platform. It is far away, in the shadows. It is probably closed for the night. He takes out his phone. He starts to dial a number. Then he stops. He doesn't have Élise's number.
He remains motionless. The letter is in his hands. Time passes.
The businesswoman stands up. She puts her phone in her bag. She looks at Marc. He doesn't move.
She smiles. It's a tired smile, but sincere. She says nothing. She doesn't know him. She walks toward her train.
The door opens. The woman gets on. The door closes.
Marc remains alone on the platform.
Then he smiles. It's a small smile. He doesn't know why. The woman said nothing to him. But for a moment, he wasn't alone.
The train leaves. Marc watches the train lights fading away in the rain.
He is alone now. The platform is empty. The station is silent. He hears only the rain.
He looks at the letter. It is still in his hands. He reads it again. The words are short: "Élise, I must tell you something I should have said a long time ago. I worked with you for twenty years. You were a colleague, but also a friend. Now that you are gone, I understand what I never knew how to say. I think of you."
Marc folds the letter. He looks at it one last time.
The announcement echoes: "The train to Lyon arrives in ten minutes."
Ten minutes.
Marc looks at the mailbox. It is closed. He looks at his phone. He doesn't have her number. He looks at the letter.
He thinks of Élise. He thinks of twenty years. Twenty years of silence. He found many reasons: his wife, his illness, time, distance.
But these weren't real reasons. They were excuses.
He remains standing on the platform. The rain continues to fall.
He thinks again of all those moments. Every day, for twenty years, he found a reason to say nothing. Now, his wife is no longer there. Élise has left the high school. And Marc is alone on a platform, with a letter in his hand.
He refolds the letter. Slowly. With care. He doesn't tear it up. He doesn't throw it away. He puts it back in his inside pocket.
He won't send it tonight. It's too late. The mailbox is closed. And he doesn't have her address.
But tomorrow, in Lyon, he will find a mailbox. He will write the address. He knows the name of her street. He knows her city. He can find it.
For the first time, he doesn't look for a reason. He doesn't tell himself "later". He doesn't tell himself "it's not the right moment".
He tells himself: "Tomorrow."
The announcement echoes: "The train to Lyon arrives on track two."
The train appears in the rain. The brakes whistle. The doors open.
Marc picks up his suitcase. He gets on the train. He finds a seat by the window. He places his suitcase beside him. He sits down.
The train leaves. The platform disappears behind him. The station lights fade away.
Marc feels the letter in his pocket. It is still there. But it no longer weighs on him. It is just a letter. A letter he will send tomorrow.
He looks out the window. The night is black. The rain traces lines on the glass.
He thinks of Élise. Not with regret. Not with sadness. Just with calm.
He takes a book out of his bag. He opens it. He begins to read.
The train moves forward through the night. So does Marc.