The Ninth Hour

The last train out of York pulled away at 23:27. He stayed on the platform anyway.

He had told himself he would go somewhere—Manchester, Leeds, anywhere with lights and noise—but the ticket stayed in his pocket. The cold bit through his gloves, sharp enough to feel honest but warm enough to keep his pride. December 31st, 2025, and the city had emptied itself into the bars and pubs, leaving only the desperate or those traveling home out in the damp, freezing air.

He walked the length of the platform twice, maybe more, hands deep in pockets, breath fogging under the orange lamps. The bench was wet; he wanted to sit, legs weary from thinking too much and wiped it with his sleeve. From here he could see the Minster’s dark bulk against a sky that refused to give up its stars. Ten years ago, on a night as arctic as this, he had stood in almost this spot with her. They had laughed about missing the countdown, kissed under the station clock at 00:03, and promised each other everything.

Everything had lasted four years.

The breakup had been quiet—no shouting, no accusations, just a slow drift, like oblivion, where taking for granted was an exercise in gamesmanship and words they exchanged had lost all meaning. And then she was gone. He told himself it was mutual. He told himself a lot of things.

Now the clock on the departure board clicked over to 23:53. Across the city, people were raising glasses, raising hopes and false alibi’s. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over her name. The message he had typed at Christmas was still there, unsent:

I still think about that new year’s eve night at the station.

He deleted it, letter by letter, until the screen was blank again.

A lone firework cracked overhead—someone impatient, someone already celebrating? The burst lit the empty tracks in brief green and gold, and then faded. He watched the colours die and felt the old ache settle in his chest, familiar. Ominous.

23:59.

He thought about the years that had slipped past: the songs he never finished, the chances he let cool, the way he had learned to live with the quiet because it was easier than reaching out. Regret, he realised, wasn’t a storm. It was a slow tide, rising inch by inch until one day you noticed the water was up to your neck.

The station clock struck twelve.

No cheers reached him here. Just the wind and the distant echo of a city pretending everything could begin again. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the new year arrive without him.

When he opened them, the sky was still dark, but the first edge of 2026 had crept in unnoticed. Not a clean slate—he knew better than that—but a page that was, at least, to be written.

He stood up with sinful intent. The night air had worked its way into his bones, but he felt something else too: a glimmer of hope, a stubborn refusal to stay rueing on this platform forever.

He didn’t have a plan.

He didn’t need one yet.

He walked toward the exit, hands still buried deep in pockets, shoulders hunched up to the collar for the last bit of warmth, breath steadying in the wintry cool.

Behind him, the platform lights dimmed for the night.

Ahead, the city waited—quiet, uncertain, and new.

Happy New Year.

Maybe, this time, he would answer when it called.

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