The Station's Eyes

• Elaine Li, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2021

The station did not sleep, and neither did she. Hour by hour, thousands of people passed through – a never-ending flow of blood through the station’s pumping veins. And all the while, she sat on her perch, never moving a muscle, frozen in time. You could, perhaps, call her the station’s eyes.

The station was unlike any other. Embellished columns and delicate stained glass whispered of its Art Nouveau roots, as a clock ticked quietly above. Like the station’s heart, it never stopped beating, reminding those below of every hour and minute and second that passed.

And in the midst of it all was – her. If she had once had a name, it was lost now to the ebb and flow of time. And just as it had whittled away her memories and her past, so time carved out the station’s tiled floor. With every step that crossed it, the floor grew shinier. More polished. A little smoother, a little slicker.

She passed her days on this very floor. And they were simple days, always the same yet never tedious. From her perch, she sat, and she watched, and she learned, as they hurried past her. A constant horde of restlessness.

They paid her no heed. For she was nothing to them. She could not make them rich, she could not make them famous. And so they failed to notice the way she observed them all, her vacant face never betraying the depths of her wisdom. She was, after all, the station’s eyes – all-knowing, all-seeing. Almost, but not quite, omnipotent.

Humankind was, she thought, quite fascinating. She watched as a man walked into a column, his eyes hypnotised by his phone. His cheeks blossoming, he glanced around him before falling once more into his digital trance. Truly fascinating indeed.

Out of the blue, a sharp cry broke through the cacophony of noise, rebounding off the sculpted walls in a seemingly endless plea for help. A man, perhaps a grandfather or even a great-grandfather, lay sprawled on the tiles. Ah, the tiles. The slick, slick tiles. It was clear to anyone who dared to look that he would not get up again if he did not have help.

And yet the throng parted around him, pausing yet never quite stopping. It reminded her of the Red Sea, yet there was no holy prophet separating the waters of the crowd; only the forces of impatience and apathy.

It was at this very moment that she realised it. A truth, one she would much rather avoid. Yes, it was undeniably a painful truth, but she knew she could not escape it any longer. All of the people passing through this bustling station – this station which never slept – were all alone. And so was she.