The little house next to the train tracks

A creative short story.

I nestled my head against the train window and allowed the vibrations of cool glass to permeate my skull. Savouring the sensation of my scrambled thoughts being tranquillized, I softened my gaze upon the outside world.

Dark rumbling clouds swirl over the landscape, turning the gap between rosy cheeks and foggy breath a delicate greyscale blend of gloom. As each stop welcome a herd of dripping passengers, I contemplate why it was that i’ve always loved the rain. Never have I understood people who loathe this weather and let it pass without adequate appreciation.

Fragmented dream like recollections flood into my awareness which transport me to a time where my legs weren’t able to sufficiently keep me upright. One treasured memory plays the scene of my warm safe haven beneath the transparent plastic cloak that covered my pushchair. My young eyes would trace each droplet on the plastic that protected me, waiting in apprehension if the raindrop I chose would win the trickling race against it’s raindrop competitors.

The crinkled sound of water hitting my shelter while being bundled in blankets was a sensory delight, a moment that has lingered with permanence beneath my consciousness. This was a comfort that separated me from the chaos, a moment for my tiny shoulders to drop from the crevices of my ears and for my shaky breath to ease. This was a moment where I could feel held, a break to pretend that I was just a normal kid, to forget the depths of pain and loneliness that someone so young should have never felt. That small moment was everything.

The jolt of my heart and sound of screeching metal yanked me back into the present as we pulled up to our next stop. Everything slows down in the rain, like a factory reset on a lagging computer or pulling an unbearable screaming kettle from the stove. When it rains it feels like hitting the pause button on an intense movie, the feeling of your heart rate turning back to normal after a panic attack or that blissful moment of no thought just before you fall asleep.

Scanning my eyes over the beings that stood on the drizzled platform, I often forget that everyone has an alternate reality to mine. My internal dialogue patterned with my own take on the backstory of their life whisper lullabies that lull me into a trance.

Affectionate tearful embraces between what looks like mother and daughter, fill my internal cosmos with warmth as their loved one approaches the train alone, trembling waves that echo love. This fills me with polarity.

A connected tangle around my soul, I silently soak within an others affection, watching from the privacy of my seat. For with the presence of affection lies the underbelly of heartache. An ache so poignant that the distant fluttered heartbeat of my younger self gets lost. It’s been over 20 years yet she still silently yearns for that guardian love. Yearning for something you never had in the first place is complex, like the act of praying despite absence. She still roams with a quivering lip and soft skin only warmed from the embrace she gives herself. Her small arms can only radiate so much, untouched parts lay dormant and cold.

As fast as the train pulls away, the rolling hills came into site, a chance to study the delicate rhythm of dancing long grass and swaying branches. Gusts of wind scatter the stormy weather over the horizon as I prepare for my favourite part of the journey.

The little house next to the train tracks.

This quaint little house is within my field of view for a split second, blinking at the wrong time could erase its entire existence from my day. It’s a solitary building with rich vegetation in its vicinity. A little fence boarders a small garden outside the house and there sits a stationed train carriage amongst a bountiful of wildflowers and vegetable patches. This sight holds a special kind of magic, a fabricated fairy tale of who lives behind those four walls.

I like to pretend…

That the owner of the house lay awake at night, the glow of train headlights illuminating their bedroom as the walls shake and wind whistles through a crooked flimsy window frame. And, they are ecstatic that this is their life.

Each train that passes is meticulously studied with diligence and respect. Each room holds its own treasures, filled to the brim with books, papers and diagrams of trains that are precariously balanced and well worn from years of use.

I like to pretend…

That the owner of the house grew up feeling different, sometimes like an alien, where everyone around them talked a foreign language that they were unable to translate. That they took refuge in their thirst for knowledge. Their interest providing a safe space, a comfort, a friend. They vowed to themselves that they wouldn’t abandon what brought them joy, even if others looked upon them with disinterested sighs and rolling eyes.

I like to pretend…

That the owner of this house never strayed away from their interest but actually doubled down on it. That they worked hard and had a goal that they fixated on. That they met a partner who understood the depths of social difficulty and isolation. Someone that just understood without sharing a word but a soul frequency. A partner who has their own unwavering interest in gardening.

I like to pretend…

That they now live in bliss, surrounded by flowers and fresh vegetables.

In their little house next to the train tracks.