The Man Who Collected Goodbyes
by Samuel – WorldWhisper Studio
Every morning at 6:47 a.m., Mr. Ellory stood outside the train station with a brown coat and a paper cup. Not for money—for memories.
He collected goodbyes.
He never said much. Just watched. He had a soft nod, like a leaf bowing to wind, and eyes that noticed the details others missed: a hand that lingered too long on a shoulder, a suitcase with frayed corners, a kiss pressed into hair, not lips.
He didn't write them down. He kept them in a small wooden box at home, in his chest, somewhere just behind the ribs.
To him, every goodbye was a tiny poem. Some full of hope—"Call me when you land!" Others heavy—"Take care of Mom, okay?" One time, a girl whispered, "Don't forget the cat's name is Saturn." She said it like it was the only thing that could hold them together.
Most people didn't notice Mr. Ellory. He wasn't trying to be seen.
Until one day, someone did.
A boy, maybe nine or ten, with a bright red backpack and a scowl meant to scare the world away. He sat beside Mr. Ellory and didn't speak. Not even when his mother waved from the platform and disappeared into the train's silver belly.
Minutes passed.
Finally, the boy asked, "Do you always wait here?"
Mr. Ellory nodded. "I do."
"For who?"
Mr. Ellory smiled gently. "For the moments people leave each other."
"That's weird."
"I suppose."
The boy picked at the zipper of his bag. "I didn't say goodbye. I pretended I was mad so she wouldn't cry."
Mr. Ellory looked at him. "Sometimes silence says more than words."
The boy didn't answer. But the next day, he came back. So did Mr. Ellory. They didn't always talk. But they always watched.
And over time, the man who collected goodbyes started to collect something else, too—hellos.