A decade ago, my mornings started with the rhythmic clatter of train wheels against the tracks, a sound so familiar that it often faded into the background, like the murmur of an old friend. I would leave my small flat in the half-light of morning, the air crisp and damp, a scent of rain forever lingering in the London air. My breath formed little clouds as I hurried toward the station, dodging puddles and joining the slow-moving stream of commuters, each locked in their own bubble of routine.
The station was always the same—a swirl of bodies, the hum of impatient voices, the occasional burst of laughter breaking through the monotony. The scent of strong coffee and buttered croissants wafted from the kiosk near the entrance, mingling with the damp wool of coats and the metallic tang of the rails. I often stood in the same spot on the platform, knowing exactly where the train doors would open, hoping for a seat but preparing to stand.
Once aboard, I’d press myself into the corner near the window if I could, letting my mind wander as the city blurred past. The Thames, dark and sluggish, slipping under bridges. Rows of terrace houses, their chimneys puffing lazy trails of smoke into the grey sky. A lone cyclist navigating traffic with the kind of confidence I admired but never possessed. It was in those quiet moments—cheek resting against the cool glass—that I would let my thoughts settle, bracing myself for the day ahead.
Some days, the journey was a cocoon, a time for podcasts, books, or simply staring out of the window, lost in my own world. Other days, it was a test of endurance—delayed trains, shifting bodies pressing too close, the frustration of being at the mercy of a schedule I couldn’t control. But it was always a transition, a bridge between home and work, between the person I was in private and the professional self I presented in the office.
Now, looking back, I feel a strange kind of nostalgia for those mornings. Not for the stress or the delays, but for the space the commute gave me—time to think, to daydream, to observe. My life has changed since then; I work differently, travel differently. But sometimes, when I pass a train station in the early morning light, I hear the echo of those long-ago journeys and feel, for a fleeting moment, the quiet anticipation of a day yet to unfold.