I was only five years old when I was left alone for the first time. Not just alone, but inside a huge metal beast called a “train,” which rattled its wheels on the rails as if mocking my childhood fear. At first, I didn’t understand what was happening. People in gray and dark clothes bustled around, their faces tired, carrying heavy bags. It smelled of iron, then cigarette smoke, smoked fish, and something else — as if the scents of all the lives passing by me had mixed together. Mom said she was stepping out for a minute: “to ask the conductor for some tea.” She always spoke briefly, as if words were hard for her. But that day, she took a little longer than usual. While fastening my overalls, her hands trembled. Not much — just barely noticeable to others. But I noticed. I noticed everything. Especially when adults tried to stay calm so as not to scare us kids.
She looked at me… not like usual. Longer. Deeper. As if she wanted to remember. Or say goodbye.
And then she just left. Simply. As if it was nothing special. As if it was an ordinary trip, an ordinary stop, an ordinary day.
But it was not an ordinary day.
I waited.
Five minutes. Ten. Half an hour. An hour. I counted the seconds, which felt like eternity. I listened to every step behind the door, every random phrase, every sound connected to the possibility of her coming back. But she didn’t. The train doors slammed shut with a clang, the train started moving, and I ran to the window, pressing my forehead against the glass. Suddenly, the world became too big, and I was too small. I watched the platform shrink, the faces of people turn into a blurred spot, how Mom was no longer there. Completely gone.
And now I was alone. In a world where no one knew I was left alone.
I didn’t cry. Not immediately. Probably because all my life I was told: “boys don’t cry.” It became a part of me, even if something inside was breaking. I just sat, staring at the back of the front seat, repeating to myself: “She’ll be back soon, she’s bringing the tea now.” I wanted it to be true. Wanted it so badly that I started believing it. Until a woman sitting across the aisle spoke to me:
— Who are you traveling with, little one?
— With my mom, — I answered. — She went to get some tea…
I repeated these words all the way. Every time someone came near, every time I heard a question, I said the same thing. As if saying it enough times would make her really appear with a paper cup in her hand.
But she never came back.
At the next station, someone met me. One of the railway employees, maybe the police. I don’t remember exactly. All those faces merged into one — kind but indifferent. They took me to the station manager’s office. It smelled of old wood, cigarette smoke, and something sweet. They gave me a candy. I didn’t want to eat it. Couldn’t. My hands didn’t obey. But I took it. To show that I was obedient. That I could be treated gently.
Then came the orphanage.
A short word, as if it’s nothing scary. But in reality — it’s a whole world where every step echoes through the walls, where the light never burns bright, and the smell of cheap soap seems the only constant. Endless corridors, creaky doors, cold floors, and the voices of caregivers that rarely sound gentle. They put me in a corner — a bed right against the wall, a sheet with a stain that apparently no one had tried to wash out for a long time. The caregiver, with a face like a strict school principal, said:
— You’re lucky, we hardly have any younger kids.
“Lucky.”
I repeated this word to myself at night, lying under a thin blanket, listening to the rustling neighbors and the creak of the floorboards. Lucky. Then why was I so cold? Why was my heart pounding so fast, as if it wanted to jump out? Why did I want to scream but couldn’t?
For the first weeks, I waited. Waited for Mom to come. That she was mistaken, lost, or missed her ticket. That all of this was a terrible nightmare. Every sound in the corridor became an alarm signal. I would jump out of bed and run to the door, hoping it was her. Once, a tall man with a stern look, one of the caregivers, snapped at me:
— Enough. No one’s coming for you.
His words were precise and merciless. They struck me like a blow. And I stopped waiting.
From that moment, I became “nobody’s.” Needed by no one, belonging to no one. In the orphanage, you quickly learn survival rules: don’t cry, don’t believe, don’t stand out. If you get hit — endure. If they put on you someone else’s clothes — stay silent. You have no past, and no one needs you until you learn to be “convenient” for others.
I shut down. Inside. As if I built a wall around myself. They started calling me “The Locomotive” — not because I loved trains, but because I always sat by the window, looking into the distance, as if waiting to depart. I didn’t understand where I wanted to go. I only knew it was bad here.
Years passed. Sometimes a caregiver tried to show care. One told me once:
— With that intellect, you’ll make it. The main thing — stay away from people.
And I stayed away. Not because I wanted to. Because otherwise — it hurts. Very much.
I stopped waiting. Stopped believing. Even changed my name when I got my passport. I wanted to erase everything connected to that child who waited for tea by the window.
Twenty-five years passed.
During this time, I made a career in IT, bought a flat on mortgage, got a dog. I named her “Tea.” Simply because that word became a symbol of something that never was. But still remained important.
One day, I woke up and realized: I needed to come back. Not for a meeting. Not for explanations. Just because inside me remained an emptiness — the size of the child’s seat by the window. I bought a ticket to that very city. To that very platform.
It looked almost the same. The same iron benches, the same old lamps, the same pigeons begging crumbs from passengers. I stood there for a long time. Watched. Didn’t move. Wanted to scream, punch the air, like I did at five. But I just stood.
And suddenly a woman sat next to me. Gray-haired, in a cheap jacket. She looked straight ahead, and her hands trembled. I felt a strange sensation — like déjà vu. Like time had curled into a circle.
— Excuse me, — I said. — Are you waiting for someone?
She looked at me. Something familiar in her eyes. Maybe just coincidence. Or maybe I wanted it to be familiar.
— No longer, — she answered quietly. — I come here every Saturday. I just… sit.
— Why?
The woman hesitated. Then took a deep breath:
— Because once… I left someone on this platform.
— A son?
She nodded.
At that moment, I understood: it was her. The mother who left. The woman who left me alone. Not because she wanted to, maybe. Not because she didn’t love me. She just — did it.
I should have asked a thousand questions. Screamed. Left. Run away. But instead, I said:
— You never brought the tea.
She looked at me. Her lips trembled. Tears filled her eyes. And for the first time in 25 years, I saw an adult cry not from pain — but from guilt.
We didn’t hug. There was no fairy-tale reunion. No music, no light, no sudden forgiveness. We just sat side by side. Two souls lost on the rails of life. After a quarter of a century — together again on one platform.
And at that moment, I understood: sometimes forgiveness doesn’t begin with words. Sometimes it begins with silence. With the simple fact: “You were here. I was too. We’re both alive.”