Winter arrived quietly, the way it always did without asking permission. Snow drifted down from a sky the color of old paper, covering the city in soft white layers that hid cracks, stains, and memories beneath. To everyone else, it was just another cold season. To Sian, it felt like the continuation of something that never truly ended.
He stood at the edge of the platform, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat, breath fogging the air. The train station was nearly empty, abandoned by time and relevance. No announcements echoed through the speakers. No screens flickered with destinations. Even the tracks looked forgotten, as though no train had passed through in years.
And yet, he was here.
Again.
Sian didn't remember the first time he came to this place. He only knew that every winter, without fail, his feet carried him here—as if his body remembered something his mind refused to name. A cold wind passed through the station, making the rusted sign creak softly. Snow settled on the benches, untouched. The clock above the platform had stopped at 11:47, its hands frozen mid-tick, trapped between seconds. Sian looked up at it, unease curling in his chest.
"Still broken," he murmured, though no one was there to hear him. Or so he thought. Somewhere behind him, footsteps crunched against the snow.
He stiffened.
That sound—he knew it. He had known it for years, even when he pretended not to. Even when he crossed the street to avoid it. Even when he trained himself to look straight ahead and not turn back.
Slowly, Sian turned. She stood a few steps away, snow gathering in her dark hair, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her coat was familiar—too familiar. He remembered lending it to her once, long ago, when she had underestimated winter and laughed it off like it was nothing.
Fiore.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The silence between them was not empty. It was full of unfinished sentences, of laughter that never found its way back, apologies trapped behind pride and fear.
"I didn't think anyone else remembered this place," Fiore said softly. Her voice hadn't changed much. It still carried warmth, even now. Especially now.
Sian swallowed. "I didn't know I remembered it either."
That earned a faint smile from her. The kind that didn't quite reach her eyes. They stood there, two people bound by a past they had never properly buried. Once, they had been inseparable sharing secrets, winters, and quiet moments that felt endless. Once, the world had made sense because they faced it together. Then something broke. Not loudly. Not all at once. It fractured slowly, like ice under too much weight. Neither of them moved closer. Snow continued to fall, heavier now, as if the sky was impatient.
"I only come here during winter," Fiore said after a while. "I don't know why."
Sian nodded. "Me too."
Another pause.
"What are you waiting for?" she asked.
He hesitated. "I don't know. A train, maybe."
Fiore glanced at the silent tracks. "There hasn't been one here in decades."
"I know."
Yet, even as he said it, the air shifted.
The temperature dropped not sharply, but deeply, the kind of cold that seeped into bone and memory alike. The lights above the platform flickered once… twice… then turned on.
Both of them froze.
The clock above them began to move.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Sian's heart pounded. "Fiore… do you see that?"
She nodded slowly, eyes wide. "This isn't normal."
The ground trembled faintly. Snow that had already settled lifted into the air, swirling upward instead of falling down. The tracks gleamed as if polished by unseen hands. Then they heard it. A sound long forgotten. A train whistle.
Low. Distant. Real.
Fiore took a step back. "Sian, I think we should—"
The train emerged from the mist, its headlights cutting through the snowfall like a blade through fabric. It didn't look modern, nor old. It looked wrong as if it existed between moments rather than in one. The doors slid open. Warm light spilled out, golden and inviting. A voice echoed from within—not loud, but clear.
"Thousand Winter has come. Passengers, please board."
Sian felt something pull at him. Not fear—recognition. Fiore grabbed his sleeve. "This feels like a mistake."
He looked at her and saw something he hadn't allowed himself to see in years.
Regret.
Hope.
Fear of being left behind again.
"Or a second chance," he said quietly.
They stood at the threshold of the train, snow melting where the light touched it.
"Do you think," Fiore asked, voice trembling, "that if we get on… things will be different?"
Sian didn't answer right away.
He thought of the words he never said. The moment he chose silence instead of honesty. The winter when he convinced himself leaving was kinder than staying.
"I don't know," he finally said. "But I know this—if we don't get on, nothing will ever change."
The train waited.
So did time.
Together, they stepped inside. The doors closed behind them with a soft, final sound. Outside, the station vanished buried under snow, erased from memory once more. And winter began again.