Above the clouds, there is a train that never reaches the end.
It only stops at a suspended platform at midnight. The station name is rusty and the waiting room is filled with faded luggage ticket stubs. It is said that all unfinished farewells and unspoken "good night" will condense into a light blue ticket, fall into some insomnia cloud, and become a night shift passenger on this platform.
This is where the most humid thoughts in the world are stored:
The overhead light on every waiting bench is a falling star. They have seen too many hands clenched and unclenched, and heard too many true words wrapped in jokes. Some people folded their apologies into paper airplanes and threw them into the sea of clouds. Some people hid their wedding rings in potted plants in the corner of the platform. Some people just drank a can of beer in silence and left the empty bottle on the bench as a tombstone.
These stories don't have soul-stirring endings, only moments brightened by the night breeze——
Like the fluttering wings of a butterfly passing over your eyelashes, like the last ray of heat climbing up the glass window before the tea cools down, like you finally understand what kind of careful fingerprints are hidden in the folds on the back of an old letter.
When the morning fog covers the railway tracks, the platform will sink to the bottom of the clouds as the last star extinguishes.
Those who are too late to get on the bus will hear the echo of the suitcase rollers rolling over their hearts when the sun breaks through the clouds. It turns out that we are all rushing to a grand passing, and this floating platform is just a footnote of the mercy of fate: it allows us to use the thickness of a page of tickets to measure the distance between regret and relief before falling.
Good night, dear stranger.
The platform deep in your soul is lighting up with a goose-yellow light at the moment.
Purpose: Telling bedtime stories to comfort insomniac souls