Flash Fiction - “The Space Between Arrivals”
The platform is fuller than she expected.
Not crowded, exactly. Just occupied. Every bench holds someone, every column has become a temporary place to lean, every stretch of open floor seems already spoken for by someone standing in it.
And yet there is room.
There always is.
She finds a place near the edge of the platform, far enough back to avoid the rush when the train arrives, close enough to feel the wind when it does.
The tracks below disappear into darkness.
Not mystery.
Just distance.
A train has recently left. She can tell by the way people are still settling back into themselves—the small adjustments after movement. A bag repositioned. A coat sleeve tugged into place. Eyes lifting from where the train had been to where it no longer is.
The absence remains for a moment.
Then it doesn't.
New York is practiced at continuing.
She slips her hands into her coat pockets and waits.
Or rather, she stands.
The difference feels important somehow.
Waiting implies focus.
Standing allows attention to wander.
A musician is playing somewhere farther down the platform. She cannot see them, only hear fragments when the noise shifts enough to let the melody through. Notes appear and disappear between announcements and passing conversations.
Incomplete.
Still recognizable.
She listens without trying to identify the song.
Once, she would have wanted to know. She would have followed the sound, searched for the source, needed the pieces to connect.
Now, she lets the music remain partially hidden.
Not everything has to reveal itself to be received.
“He hath made every thing beautiful in his time.” — Ecclesiastes 3:11
In his time.
Not hers.
The thought settles gently.
Across the tracks, another platform mirrors this one imperfectly. People wait there too. Different faces. Different destinations. Similar postures.
Lives unfolding within sight of one another without ever touching.
A woman is reading a book. A man is eating something from a paper bag. Someone stares at the tracks with the concentration usually reserved for prayer.
No one appears to be doing anything significant.
And yet, life is happening everywhere she looks.
She wonders if this is how God sees the city.
Not as a mass.
Not as a crowd.
But as countless small moments held simultaneously.
A thousand unnoticed faithfulnesses.
A thousand private griefs.
A thousand ordinary mercies.
“The eyes of the LORD are in every place...” — Proverbs 15:3
Not watching to evaluate.
Watching because He loves.
The musician's melody surfaces again, carried farther this time. A few notes linger above the noise before dissolving.
The song never arrives fully.
She doesn't need it to.
A train rushes through the station without stopping. Wind pushes through the platform, lifting loose strands of hair, tugging at coats, stirring papers someone forgot to secure.
The force of it passes quickly.
The stillness that follows is different than the stillness before.
She notices how often life works that way.
How moments leave traces without leaving evidence.
How something can move through you and be gone before you've named it.
“Deep calleth unto deep...” — Psalm 42:7
She doesn't know exactly why the verse comes.
Only that it fits.
A child nearby asks a question.
The mother answers.
The child asks another.
The conversation continues beyond her hearing as they move farther down the platform.
No conclusion reaches her.
Only the existence of it.
There was a time she found that frustrating—the partial view, the unfinished story. She wanted endings. Context. Resolution.
But most of life, she has discovered, is encountered in passing.
A glimpse.
A fragment.
A moment entrusted without explanation.
The train is delayed.
Not significantly. Just enough for the electronic sign overhead to add another minute.
Then another.
No one reacts dramatically.
A few people check their phones. Someone sighs. Most simply continue standing where they are.
The platform absorbs the adjustment.
She thinks about how much energy she once spent resisting small delays.
As though interruption itself carried meaning.
As though every pause required interpretation.
Now she notices something else.
Nothing has actually stopped.
The trains are delayed.
The day is not.
People are still arriving. Leaving. Reading. Listening. Breathing.
Life continues even when progress appears to pause.
“Be patient therefore, brethren...” — James 5:7
Patience feels different than she imagined.
Less endurance.
More participation.
The musician has stopped playing.
Or perhaps she can no longer hear them.
It amounts to the same thing.
The melody is gone.
The platform remains.
A train appears in the tunnel at last, two lights emerging from darkness that was never empty, only obscured. People begin gathering themselves—not rushing, simply preparing.
Bags lifted.
Books closed.
Attention redirected.
The train arrives.
Doors open.
Movement resumes.
She steps inside with everyone else, finding a place near the center of the car. The doors close. The platform begins to slide away.
For a moment, she sees it framed by the window—the benches, the columns, the people who are still waiting for other trains.
Then it disappears.
The station remains behind.
The journey continues ahead.
Neither one invalidates the other.
She leans lightly against the pole as the train gathers speed.
The city moves around her, beneath her, through her.
Somewhere above ground, someone is opening a shop.
Someone is ending a shift.
Someone is standing at a window.
Someone is praying.
Someone is laughing.
Someone is grieving.
The train enters another tunnel.
The darkness outside the window offers nothing to see.
She doesn't mind.
Not every part of the journey is meant to be visible.
“For we walk by faith, not by sight.” — 2 Corinthians 5:7
The words do not resolve anything.
They simply accompany her.
Like the city.
Like grace.
Present in the space between arrivals,
and sufficient there.
𑁋
Explore
Still With Her: Flash Fictions (New: Monthly on the 5th and 15th)
Bound Gently: Meeting in the Middle: Crossing the Threshold - Short Fiction Book, Veiled in Crimson: The Price of the Bride - Short Fiction Book, and Serpent Dance: A Dance with the Serpent - Short Fiction Book (All Completed)
Spoken Before Him: Beloved Daughter - Short Prayer Book (Completed)
With Open Text: Michal: The Daughter Between Thrones Case Study and Peter: The Fire That Was Refined Case Study (New: Often)
A Gentle Note
Earlier flash fictions are no longer available as individual posts and have been thoughtfully gathered into Petals of Prose (Volume One) - January to March 2026 (Originals).
This collection is available in the “Downloadable Content” section of the website and may also be accessed here: Petals of Prose (Volume One) - January to March 2026 (Originals).