There were only three seats left in the entire train. It was a small train, going to places of little or no importance, but every one of those stops was important for someone inside the train. The seat I chose was inside a closed compartment. I entered, murmured my greetings to the other three people inside, and sat down. Looking out the window, I remembered a story my father had once told me. He had once been stuck inside a train for hours and, with nothing else to do, all the people in the compartment had taken turns at telling stories from their lives. He said that journey had taught him more than school ever had, and he was still in touch with some of those people today. He said to remember that everyone has at least one story that is worth hearing. Wondering what tales my fellow travelers had to tell, I looked at the person sitting on my left. It was a young man, dressed in a carefully ironed suit, with his shoes shined and his tie tight around his neck, which almost seemed to be choking him. He was listening to music and tapping his foot in time to whatever song he was listening to. He looked happy, for although his mouth was in a hard, straight line, his eyes were slightly crinkled. I could only wonder why he was on this train, where he was going, who he was going to see. The next person was a woman; I would have guessed her to be about seventy. On her lap she was holding a small lapdog with the most beautifully groomed white fur and its own knitted jacket. She was absent-mindedly stroking its back, and it looked to be asleep. I wondered whether she lived alone with the dog, whether the dog was there to replace someone she had loved.
The last person in the compartment was a man who could have been anywhere between thirty and forty-five years old. He had on a long, black coat and was carrying a bouquet of tulips in his arms. Perhaps he was going to a birthday party or a wedding, or perhaps his wife had just had a baby, and he was bringing the flowers to the happy occasion. He could also be bringing the flowers to a funeral, I thought all of a sudden, and be bringing the flowers to lay on a grave. This could be one of the happiest moments in his life or one of the worst, and I had no way of knowing. Remembering my father’s story, I wondered what I would hear if I started a conversation with these people, what they would have to tell me, whether their stories would touch me and change my life. I opened my mouth to make the first move and speak, but a wave of uncertainty and shyness washed over me and made me close it again. Perhaps these people didn’t want to be disturbed, I comforted myself guiltily, and flicked my eyes towards the window again. And so the journey continued past places of no importance except to the people who were going there as we all tried not to think of the things left unsaid and the stories left untold.