I Waited for You

Type: Sad

Every day, coming home from school, I saw him. The old man sat on that soiled, chipped bench by the garbage cans that no one ever used anymore – it had simply become part of the underground landscape. The transfer machines beeped and the crows rushed on, leaving unnoticed the man sitting at the foot of the stairs. His hair was grey, but not the pearly grey that brown hair becomes – nor the white that follows blonde hair. I figured his old hair must've been another color – red, perhaps. He had the appearance of someone who had once been in excellent physical shape, an athlete, maybe. His eyes were a very light, clear blue, far too quirky for an old man, but also naïve. He never took his eyes off one spot – the staircase from which the crowds emerged onto the station and dispersed to the shops and exits.

I noticed once a wedding ring on his finger. "Good," I thought. "So he's not alone." I didn't notice him much after that, for the longest time. One day, I was returning from a friend's house on a Sunday, and I saw him sitting there again. I became curious. I sat at the other end of the bench, pretending to tie my shoe, then greeted him with an awkward "Good morning, sir."

He gave a slight nod and then continued looking at the stairs. There was no one there. "Who are you waiting for?" I asked.

"My wife," He answered without looking at me. I wondered if he /could/ take his eyes off the stairs. Maybe after all these years, it wasn't possible. I was getting a bit bored of him – I was hoping he'd be more interesting.

"She works on Sundays?"

"She works every day in the Ministry of Ma- In the Ministry. Government."

I paused. This was boring. "What's her name?" I asked politely, getting up to leave.

"Hermione," He whispered. It was eerie, hearing him talk in such a voice in the empty station. I grabbed by bag and waved goodbye, streaking up the stairs.

Overnight, however, I had grown curious still. I wondered what his wife looked like, what he was like when he wasn't alone – and I was determined to find out.

The next day, I saw him waiting again, around six. I got some ice cream from a nearby shop and sat in a booth, glancing at him every now and then. Suddenly, around eight, when the Underground was nearly empty, he stood up and started walking towards the stairs. I ran after him.

When he saw me, he stopped. We looked into each other's eyes for a few seconds until I finally blurted out, "But – your wife? Where is she? She hasn't come yet."

"Of course she has," He answered. "She always comes. She promised to never keep me waiting."

And so as he walked up the stairs I realized what it all meant. The ring, the waiting, and his longing look towards the stairs. He knew there was no one coming. He knew that she was dead. He knew she was gone. And I didn't know if he was insane, or irrationally hopeful… but something, something powerful, was making him come every day and wait for his beloved Hermione.

I didn't go home that night – I called my parents to say I was sleeping over at a friend's.

I sat on the bench and I looked at the stairs until the sun came up.

Just in case he had missed her.