"I barely caught my breath, the sound of my own boots echoing off the wet platform. The train door slammed shut behind me the moment I jumped in, the whole carriage swaying under the storm's weight. My hands trembled. My heart wouldn't stop pounding.
Take a seat at my booked seat, I leaned my forehead against the cold window, watching Berlin disappear into streaks of rain.
Ma'am, may I see your ticket?" The controller asked politely, leaning slightly toward the old woman beside me.
She fumbled through her worn leather bag, her fingers shaking. "Oh dear… I—I had it just now…"
He waited patiently at first, but the seconds stretched. The rain drummed faintly against the train's windows; the sound blurred into the rhythm of the tracks.
I looked down, pretending to scroll through my phone, though the screen was empty. The woman's hands kept digging, her breath quick and nervous.
"It must be here somewhere," she murmured.
Something about the way she said it—tired, desperate, trembling—made my stomach twist. I could almost hear my mother's voice saying the same words once.
The controller sighed softly. "It's all right, ma'am. We'll sort it out at the next stop."
He smiled, gentle, but the old woman's eyes still darted, full of fear.
I looked away. Outside, the world slid past in streaks of gray.
Put on my ears phone, I just let my world engulfed in music.
At the next stop, the train hissed and slowed, metal screeching against wet rails. The controller returned, his shoes clicking softly down the aisle.
"Ma'am, I'll need to see your ticket now," he said, his tone firmer this time.
The old woman froze. Her eyes darted to the window, then back at him. "Ah, yes—yes, of course," she said, fumbling again, but it was clear now. There was no ticket.
He sighed. "You'll need to get off here, ma'am. I'm sorry, but you can't stay on without a valid—"
"No, please," she interrupted quickly, her voice rising above the sound of the rain. "I only need to get to the third stop! My son—he's waiting there. He doesn't know I—"
Her words stumbled over themselves, desperate, thin. A few passengers turned to watch.
The controller hesitated, glancing toward the door where the station platform glistened under yellow light. "Rules are rules," he said finally, softer now, but unmoving.
I sat still, watching her clutch her bag tighter to her chest, eyes shining with something like shame.
The door slid open. A gust of cold air swept in, carrying the scent of rain and rust.
"I'll pay for her," I said suddenly.
The controller turned, startled. The old woman looked up at me, blinking through her fogged glasses.
I took out my card and handed it to him. "How much?"
He hesitated. "Ma'am, you don't have to—"
"I said I'll pay," I cut in, sharper than I meant.
The transaction beeped; a small green light blinked. The controller nodded, muttering thanks before moving on.
The old woman turned to me, voice trembling. "You didn't have to do that."
I shrugged, looking out the rain-smeared window. "It's just a few euros, is not much." I offered her with a nod.
After that, I shrunk back into my seat, intending to take some nap.
The woman somehow reliefs, I can see it on her face.
"You back to study?" She suddenly asked.
I shake my head, turned off the phone. "No, I just come back to visit my sister." I smiled softly at her
I forced a smile, the kind that only half-reaches the lips. "My sister—she's not well. We don't know how long she can last, but the doctor said she a fighter, if the surgery successful, maybe we will have more time." I lied.
A bitter chuckle escaped before I could stop it. "Guess that's something to be grateful for, huh?"
"But why, dear?" She asked with genuinely concern in her voice,
"Blood cancer—last… last stage," I managed, forcing a smile that trembled on my lips.
"Oh, dear…" Her voice broke slightly, the kind of sound that carries both pity and memory.
There was a silence between us. Heavy, but not uncomfortable—like two strangers suddenly standing on the same edge of loss.
Outside, the sky split open again with rain, streaking down the window in crooked silver lines. The rhythmic clatter of the train filled the air, giving my thoughts a place to hide.
She reached out, her wrinkled hand brushing mine just for a second. "You're brave to smile through that," she murmured.
I keep silent, swallow the tears ready to fall.
The train rocked gently, carrying both of us—her with memories, me with fears—toward destinations neither of us really wanted to reach.
Then she whispered, almost to herself, "You're lucky to still have her."
"Huh?"
After a moment, she whispered, "He's been waiting a long time."
I tilted my head, confused. "Oh, so… he lives there?, your son?"
She let out a faint laugh—a brittle, hollow sound.
"No, dear. He rests there."
The words struck sharper than I expected.
"I visit him every year. Always the same day." Her voice cracked slightly. "The station never changes. The flowers are cheaper now, though."
I didn't know what to say. My throat felt dry.
"…I'm sorry," I murmured.
She turned to me with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Don't be. A mother never really leaves her child. Even when the world already has."
Silence hung between us—gentle but heavy.
My eyes hung low, my fingers fumbling with the phone. "Some left and never come back".
Mother.
She suddenly pulled out a small box, worn at the edges but carefully kept. When she lifted the lid, my breath caught—inside were dozens of tiny paper stars, folded by hand, glowing softly in every color imaginable. They shimmered like a small, contained galaxy.
"It's beautiful," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the rhythm of the train.
She smiled faintly, her eyes distant. "My son always asked for more. 'Mommy, can you make it more? Can you fill the whole jar this time?'"
Her fingers brushed the edges of the stars, trembling slightly. "He said when we have enough, the sky would come down to listen to us."
The lump in my throat made it hard to breathe. "He must've been… kind," I said quietly.
"He was everything," she murmured. Her gaze was somewhere far beyond the glass, in a time where he still existed. "He would've been twenty-three this month."
The stars swayed with the train's motion, the colors blending under the dim light.
The woman looked at me for a long moment, her cloudy eyes tracing my face as if reading something written beneath my skin. Then, without another word, she closed the box and placed it gently into my hands.
I blinked. "Ma'am—no, I can't—"
"You can," she said simply. "You must."
Her fingers, thin and veined like old parchment, pressed mine closed around the box. "Give this to your sister. As our hope and dreams for her, the sky she never can reach.., someday, I will look at the sky with my son beside me too."
My lips parted, but no sound came out. The weight of the box in my palms felt heavier now—like holding someone's life, or maybe their love.
She smiled faintly, a softness that could break you if you looked too long. "The world takes so much from us, dear. Don't let it take the light too."
The train slowed, the brakes screeching lightly. When it stopped, she stood up, holding onto the rail for balance. "This is my stop," she said quietly.
"After 4 days, I will return on the same train, same seat, will we meet again, dear?"
I blinked, hesitated at first.
"Yeah, we will, we—we will." I waving at her as a goodbye, who know if we can meet again, a little deep down of me want, but also don't want.
"Take care of your sister," she said before stepping off the train. "You'll thank yourself someday."
I watched her through the window as she disappeared into the gray drizzle—tiny, fragile, but steady.
For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking how grief always finds its own way to survive.
Goodbye.
—§—
After hours and countless stops, I finally arrived at the train station in Italy. The air was warm but heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone and diesel. My bag felt heavier than usual, though I knew it was only the box in my hands. I glanced down at it—its edges worn, the paper stars inside pressing gently against the lid, like they knew they carried more than just folded scraps.
The station was bustling. Families embraced, travelers dragged luggage, and street vendors called out in a mix of Italian and accented English. But all I could hear was the soft, rhythmic pulse of the train wheels and the echo of her words: "Don't let the world take the light too."
I stepped onto the platform, the cobblestones slick beneath my shoes, and for a moment I felt untethered.
I found a bench near the station café and sat down, letting the box rest on my lap. I slowly opened it, careful not to disturb the delicate stars. Each fold seemed deliberate, almost alive, reflecting shards of color in the dim Italian light. My fingers traced one, then another, as if I could feel the hand that folded them, the love stitched into every crease.
Standing out of the station, I looked for some taxi standing in a line nearby to catch.
"Buongiorno…" I greeted the nearby taxi driver standing, middle-age man with a polite smile, "Maria Orphanage please".
"Of course, miss!" His eyes light up with happiness, I can tell that I am his first customer in day.
He opened the car door for me and help to take my luggage.
"It's a bit outside the city center, but I will bring you there fast!"
I almost smile with his eagerness, sliding in his old car, the first smell hit me is a soft orange flower scent, mixing with some cinnamon. Well, it's kinda fresh for me.
"Thud"
"You visiting some relatives? Miss?" He ask as he turn on the engine. His key clanging together.
My eyes rose up from my phone, I can see his eyes staring at me in the mirror.
"Ah, no, my sister living there recently. I just return from work, so I want to spend some rest days with her."
He gave a small nod, his voice softening. "Ah. Family things."
I sat back, arms folded around the box in my lap. For a while, neither of us said anything. Then I asked, "You drive every day?"
He chuckled. "Almost. But not too many passengers these days."
"Why not? Not enough tourists?"
He shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his face. "Because I don't use any of those apps. You know, the ones everyone books from now? I'm too old for that stuff."
I smiled a little. "So you just wait at the station?"
"Yeah," he said, shrugging. "Sometimes I get a ride, sometimes I just drink coffee and listen to the rain. My son bought me this car when he got his first job. Said, 'Papa, you can work again, feel young again.'"
"That's nice of him," I said quietly.
He nodded, eyes still on the road. "Yeah. He was a good kid."
Something in the way he said was made me look up. He didn't say anything else right away, just tapped the steering wheel lightly with his thumb.
After a moment, he added, "He used to joke that this car would find me more friends than he ever did. Guess he wasn't completely wrong."
I smiled faintly. "So how's that going?"
He laughed, a warm, raspy sound. "Not great. You're the first one today who actually talks back."
I laughed too, quietly. "Lucky you then."
"Lucky me!" He laughs heartily, then silent hang in the air.
"My wife also wants me to find some friends too, not to be lonely in this late age.."
H continued quietly. "People find you when they're meant to. She said it the night we met. At a bus stop, of all places."
I turned my gaze from the window. "That's… kind of sweet."
He smiled, faint and tired. "Yeah. She missed her bus, I offered her a ride. She said no. Then it started raining, and she said yes. We never really stopped talking after that."
I could hear the fondness in his voice, but also the ache underneath it.
"Where is she now?" I asked gently.
He hesitated, then sighed. "She passed away. Two years ago. Cancer."
I stayed quiet, letting the sound of the rain fill the silence.
He continued, voice softer now. "I kept driving after that. Couldn't stay home—too quiet. Too many cups on the table, you know? So I come here every day, pick up whoever's lost or in a hurry. Makes the hours move."
My throat tightened. "You must've loved her a lot."
He smiled faintly, eyes still on the road. "Still do. That kind of thing doesn't stop just because someone leaves."
The wipers squeaked once, then stopped for a moment as if even they were listening.
He chuckled lightly, to ease the air again. "Anyway, she'd laugh if she saw me now—old man in a taxi, pretending not to talk too much."
I smiled back. "She sounds like she'd love that you still talk."
He laughed softly. "Maybe she's listening now. Who knows?"
The road curved, the sign ahead reading Orfanotrofio di Maria. The rain had nearly stopped, just a soft drizzle left hanging in the air
"So how much it will be?"
He waved a hand. "No, no. Just enough for coffee. I had good company today — that's more than I usually get."
She smiled faintly, pressing a few bills into his palm anyway. "Then… buy two coffees."
He chuckled. "Deal."
I stopped before closing his car door. "I will call for you when I get back to station! Deal?" I smiled at him, don't know if I can make it.
He nod his hat as an agreement. Then drive away.
I stayed still for a moment, listening to the rain tap softly against the iron gate. The sound hadn't changed — neither had the smell of wet stone or the faint echo of bells from somewhere deep inside the building.
It was strange how a place could stay the same when everything else in you had shifted.
I used to stand right here, years ago, waiting for someone who never came.
The walls were still that pale yellow, cracked at the edges like old skin. The same ivy crawled up the side of the main hall, and the same crooked cross leaned slightly above the roofline. Even the sign — Orfanotrofio di Maria — looked tired, its paint faded but still holding on.
My fingers tightened around the box. It wasn't the first time I'd brought something here. Back then, it had been letters, small gifts, anything I thought would make me feel less like a stranger in my own story—just for my little sister.
A breeze passed through the gate, carrying the smell of soap and lilies — the scent of Sister Elena's laundry room. I could almost hear her voice again, calling my name with that half-patient, half-stern tone. "Maya, smettila di correre nei corridoi!" Stop running in the halls.
Every time I return, there is only thing that I prayed—always. Mona will be prepared for her surgery , I will earn enough money for her this month. I will.
The door gave a slow, tired creak as I pushed it open. The familiar scent of soap, dust, and warm milk spilled into the air, wrapping around me like a memory that refused to fade.
Inside, the corridor stretched long and narrow, painted in soft yellow that time had worn thin. Children's drawings covered the walls — uneven rainbows, stick figures with bright smiles, paper stars taped above doorframes. Some corners were smudged with fingerprints, others peeling from humidity.
"Naughty." I whispered to myself, tracing the old walls. I used to draw some of my favorite things on it—unicorn.
Well, it's already been covered with others talent.
A crayon sun smiled down from the corner of the wall. Underneath it, in clumsy handwriting, someone had written: Dio ci guarda sempre.
God always watches us.
Down the hall, a little girl peeked out from one of the rooms — her dark hair sticking in uneven clumps, eyes wide with curiosity. When our gazes met, she smiled shyly and ducked back inside, giggling.
The sound made something twist in my chest — the same ache that always came when I realized how easily innocence survived here, even among the cracks.
My shoes squeaked softly against the tile as I walked further in.
The floor still had that uneven dip near the chapel — the one I used to trip over as a child. Someone had tried to cover it with a rug now, blue with fading stars.
A group of children sat near the end of the hallway, drawing on the floor with colored pencils. One boy held up his picture proudly — a house under a rainbow, a stick figure with two smiling faces.
"That's me and my sister," he told another girl, his voice bright and certain, like the world would never take that away from him.
I smiled softly, but my throat tightened.
"The sound of distant bells carried faintly from the chapel, blending with laughter, and for a brief second, I could almost believe nothing bad had ever happened here.
Then I reached the end of the corridor.
Mona's door stood there — pale blue, with a paper flower taped crookedly at eye level. The petals were starting to fade, but her handwriting still stood out, uneven but confident:
Mona Demione
I let my fingers hover just above it, afraid to touch.
The children's laughter behind me softened into silence. The air shifted — heavier, slower.
"This is me—…,"
"And"
"My sister".