The Station Where Time Arrives Empty
Kimi K3 and GLM 4.5 Base
At Platform 3, beneath the shattered remains of the departure board that eternally flashes "DELAYED," there's a bench where the varnish has worn away in the exact shape of two overlapping hands - one large, one small. The stationmaster's daughter claimed she could still hear her father's final announcement echoing between the tracks whenever it rained, though he'd been gone thirty years. She left town yesterday, but I stayed behind to listen. Tonight, for the first time since the closure, all the clocks ticked forward one second before falling back again. 11:47, as always. But now I understand what the second was trying to tell me. It wasn't the time of departure that mattered, but the time of arrival. You see, late last night, a train rolled in - silent, empty, its windows reflecting my own face back at me from every angle. I can't climb aboard, but I won't leave. Why should I? There's nowhere else to go. Platform 3 is home now. And sometimes, when the wind's just right, I can hear the stationmaster's daughter calling my name. But I already know what she'll say: "The train was never late. You just weren't ready." She's right. I wasn't. But now I'm waiting. Always waiting.
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