The subway during the morning rush hour was like a silent river, with people being carried along by the current. Arthur leaned against a corner of the car, clutching a yellowed ticket in his hand.
It was an old ticket from ten years ago—from Berlin to Munich, a hard-seat ticket with no seat number. The edges of the ticket were frayed, as if they’d been rubbed repeatedly. He remembered it had snowed heavily that day; the platform was nearly deserted, with only him and a woman in a gray coat. She didn’t say a word; she simply pressed the ticket into his hand and said, “Keep it. You’ll understand someday.”
At the time, he had just lost his job, and his girlfriend had left him; he felt completely hollowed out. He thought she was trying to comfort him, but she never showed up again.
Over the years, he’d held three different jobs and moved five times; his drawers were crammed with all kinds of tickets: plane tickets, movie tickets, exhibition tickets. But this one—this one alone—he’d never thrown away. Sometimes, in a taxi on his way home after working overtime until the early hours of the morning, he’d take it out and look at it, as if handling an old pocket watch—the time was still ticking, but the hands had stopped at a mark they refused to move past.
Today he was supposed to rush to a meeting at the office, but while transferring lines, he got off one stop too far. Stepping out of the station, the sunlight was just right. The old café on the corner was still there—the sign had changed colors, but the doorknob was still brass. He pushed open the door, ordered a hot coffee, and sat down by the window.
Outside the window, a young girl was looking down at her phone. She suddenly looked up, saw the ticket in his hand, paused for a moment, then smiled gently.
It was a faint smile, like a breeze skimming the water’s surface.
Arthur suddenly realized that some things aren’t meant to be reached. Just like this ticket—it had never taken him anywhere, yet it kept him on the road.
He looked down and gently tucked the ticket into his book. The coffee was slightly bitter, but its aftertaste lingered.
The subway kept running, and the city kept turning. And he finally stopped rushing to ask: “Where is the next stop?”
