words per minute
5
Elewolf_Writer
00:00
Speed
The train station was almost empty when the last train arrived. A cold wind moved through the platform, carrying bits of paper and dust across the concrete floor. The loudspeaker made a quiet crackling sound, but no announcements followed.
A tall man stepped off the train with a small black bag in his hand. He looked around slowly, as if trying to recognize a place he had not seen in many years.
The station looked old.
The paint on the walls was peeling, and the metal benches were scratched and worn from decades of use. A single flickering light hung above the platform, buzzing quietly.
The man walked toward the exit.
Near the station door sat an old security guard drinking tea from a small metal cup. He looked up briefly.
“Late train,” the guard said.
“Seems like it,” the man replied.
The guard nodded and returned to his tea.
Outside the station, the city felt quiet and unfamiliar. The streets were wide but mostly empty. A few streetlights illuminated the road, leaving large areas in shadow.
The man checked the time on his watch.
2:17 a.m.
Not exactly the best hour to arrive somewhere new.
He began walking down the street without any clear direction. The sound of his footsteps echoed lightly against the buildings.
After a few minutes, he noticed a small café on the corner that was still open. The sign outside blinked slowly, and warm yellow light filled the windows.
Inside, only two people were there: a young waitress wiping a table and an old man reading a newspaper.
The man stepped inside.
A small bell rang above the door.
The waitress looked up.
“Kitchen is closed,” she said immediately.
“That’s fine,” the man replied. “Just coffee.”
She nodded and walked to the machine behind the counter.
The smell of fresh coffee slowly filled the room.
The old man lowered his newspaper slightly and looked at the stranger.
“Passing through?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
“People usually pass through this town. Not many stay.”
The waitress placed the coffee on the counter.
“Three dollars,” she said.
The man paid and took a seat by the window.
Outside, the empty street looked calm but slightly mysterious. Occasionally, a car would pass, its headlights briefly lighting the walls of the buildings.
The old man folded his newspaper.
“You look like someone searching for something,” he said.
The man stared into the coffee cup.
“Maybe.”
The old man smiled slightly.
“Careful with that. Sometimes people spend their whole lives searching and forget to live.”
The waitress laughed quietly.
“That’s the most philosophical thing I’ve heard all week.”
The man finally smiled.
“Maybe you're both right.”
He took a sip of coffee.
It was strong and bitter.
Outside, the wind continued moving through the empty streets, carrying the quiet feeling of a city that was only half asleep.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
The clock on the wall ticked slowly.
3:02 a.m.
The man looked out the window again and wondered how many stories had passed through this small café over the years. Travelers, strangers, late-night conversations.
Places like this often existed quietly, witnessing thousands of small moments that nobody else ever noticed.
The waitress turned down the lights slightly.
“We close in twenty minutes,” she said.
The man nodded.
“That’s enough time.”
He finished his coffee slowly, stood up, and placed the empty cup on the counter.
Outside, the night air felt colder than before.
But the city no longer felt completely unfamiliar.
Sometimes all it took was one quiet place, one cup of coffee, and a few simple conversations to make a strange place feel a little more real.
The man stepped back into the street.
The wind moved again through the empty road.
And somewhere in the distance, another train horn echoed through the night.