“Downtown,” she’d said, the word clipped and hurried.
But the truth, etched in the tremor of her voice,
was the space behind the train station.
There, amidst the forgotten echoes of departures and arrivals,
a different kind of rendezvous awaited.
The air hung heavy with the tang of metal
and the musky scent of discarded dreams,
a fitting backdrop for the news she carried.

Tears welled in her eyes,
glistening like misplaced diamonds in the fading light.
Her daughter, she’d confessed,
a revelation that shattered the carefully constructed facade I’d known.
My question, a clumsy attempt to bridge the chasm
that had opened between us, hung heavy in the air.
“Did you speak to her?” it tumbled out, the “her” left purposely vague,
the vein of desperation in my voice betraying my flimsy pretence of nonchalance.

The foolishness of it all washed over me.
Years had passed, a lifetime etched in unspoken words and the slow,
steady erosion of connection.
My own sins, a tangled web spun from choices and regrets,
mirrored in the storm brewing behind her eyes.

And then, as if by unspoken agreement, the dam broke.
Tears, raw and unadulterated, streamed down both our faces.
The weight of the unspoken, the burden of lost years,
dissolved in the cleansing rain of shared grief.
We sought refuge in a dimly lit bar, a haven for the weary and lost.
The air, thick with smoke and the murmurs of strangers,
provided a strange sense of solace.