The Mystery Stop

It wasn't until I thought I'd stopped that I realised I had not.

Where was he going with his cases and pockets stretched to the max, with his back bent and arms low, his face a contortion of purpose and struggle?

They whispered this from afar. He had just left you see and was off, they knew not where. But he had only returned mere hours ago.

He waited at the stop for a bus to arrive, to take him to the next place. It was late and he panicked that he would never arrive.

Passengers were going somewhere, he thought. He asked one where they were heading, and another, then the last eventually told him.

He followed him to a house and secretly watched. He saw nothing he had not tried previously.

At the train station people milled waiting for the delayed train. It pulled in as if time was on its side and always had been.

It stopped at every station, every station it stopped at. He longed for the next and the next, never happy with any.

When trying to exit the doors wouldn't budge; they had frozen.

He sat down and witnessed people outside hurrying. The windows reflected the lights of an empty carriage except for his bags which he had now clutched tightly to his chest.