CLICK. CLICK.

The old man punches the tickets of a young couple on the train. Mr. Windham is thinking about his wife again, bless her soul, and how strikingly similar the young lady’s eyes are to those of his lost love. A pewter grey, though easily mistaken for blue. The weary Mr. Windham sighs, forlorn, and continues down the aisle. Past the seat where 20 and 22 year old Mr. and Mrs. Windham had settled on their way home from College in North Dakota, exuberant to start their lives together.

How long ago had it been? Pointless to count, surely. No matter. A loyal servant to the railway for a good many years now, Mr. Windham still loved most the morning frost that could be counted on to crystallize over the cabin windows at this time of year. Sometimes, when alone, he would scratch little doodles of cats and flowers into the icy coating, just as his wife had.

Oh, how he still loved her, even after death do them part. A cruel thing, he thought, to leave a frail man as himself in such a lonely, unrelenting world. She’d made a promise, towards the end, that when the time came they would leave together. But she was too kind, as he knew she would be, to cause him any such physical pain; Little knowing the precipice of despair on which Mr. Windham stood, should she disappear. Despite his injustice, he doesnt blame her—In her position, he’d do the same. His burdens are his own. All he trusts is that she died a loved and oh-so-lovely woman of the world, as brave as she’d always been.

Now, the solitary Mr. Windham fills his heart with a heightened care for the little things; Not so much gratitude as an attention to detail, but nonetheless it soothes him. He knows these habits of comfort are as precious as the gold band that still encircles his wrinkled finger. Lost in a daily morning stupor, Windham reaches the end of the train carriage. His weathered knees cry out in protest as he takes a seat in the last row, familiar orange leather granting a small relief. He checks his watch. 5:16 am.

They’ll be moving soon. Job done, he leans back, stretching, and takes one final look around.

A young girl, maybe six, with golden curls that bounce like springs when she laughs, is leaning over the back of her seat to make faces at the couple behind her (much to her mother’s chagrin). The couple, clutched tightly together as if the smallest wind would do them apart, cast polite smiles in her direction, clearly unsure what to do. The man is dressed in uniform, undoubtedly off to serve as Mr. Windham’s own father had. The lady beside him, the one with his wife’s eyes, sports a rich black dress, checkered shoes, and a tear-stained face. But Mr. Windham wasted no time worrying for her; he knew she’d be okay as she radiated a sense of strength and fool-hardiness in her demeanor that could not be crushed under the weight of the world. This brought him comfort, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why.

Lastly, he found his eyes landing on the only other passenger who rode the dawn rails that morning. An older woman across from him, with chestnut hair, dressed head-to-toe in a navy doctor's uniform and hunched over a notepad and book that appeared to explain (in horrifyingly visual detail) the function of a heart riddled with a chronic malformation. Delightful.

As Mr. Windham at last closed his eyes, cap tucked low on his silvery head, he wondered if maybe he, too, had a malformation of the heart. One that no stethoscope nor X-ray could detect, but some bitter melancholy that gnawed at the poor man’s loss like a parasite sucking blood, leaving him without purpose or direction.

But then again, Mr. Windham was too tired to contemplate such things. It would have to wait.

And so, there the old man slept, in his favorite booth on his favorite train, in-between worlds and dreaming of his favorite lifelong friend. A contentment subconsciously realized, if not in an awakened state, lulled Mr. Windham towards a place he so longed to go. Weary muscles relaxed like leaves unfurling and a soft smile graced his face for a final time. His last exhale hung in the chilled air for a moment—as if a goodbye—before dissolving into dew and collecting on the very windows he so adored.

And it was ok.