I didn't have time to sit there. I had someone to meet. Nothing urgent. Just a regathering of myself. Well, of parts of myself. You see, he was part of me. Rather, I was part of him. Though, he, nonetheless, made up a portion of me. But I hadn't met him yet. He was a part I didn't know about and secretly, I hoped to find myself in our transactions. I arrived at the station we had predestined. I tipped my driver with a slam of my door above the wet cobblestone, reflecting night sky, he mechanically rolled off. I stepped to the large glass doors, tinted green. inside, I surveyed a small crowd, some seated in a maze of hardwood benching, some standing, all still and quiet as i moved through the glass. They couldn't be less bothered. They paid no mind, not one of them, leading me to surmise none of them was him. I moved cautiously past the wooden windows, so as not to alarm anyone. In considerate nature, I considered that maybe I wasn't yet noticed and would hate to startle a stranger through unaccounted presence. I found a seat on a wooden bench between several strangers. I observed the faces of my surroundings, still unnoticed. I knew my target of meeting to be a man so I observed them specifically. All of them sat or stood, faces down, consumed by one article of reading or another, focus drowned in words. One of them, a larger man standing in slacks, suspenders and an unkempt white beard, read something appearing to be medical in nature. The title read something of "country doctors" as i gathered with glimpses of its cover. Its spine, half covered by a cushioning hand, gave an authors name. "Kafka", it read. No doubt a German writer of medicine. I continued to survey. Another man, tall, well built, but not overly muscular, sat, powerful knees bent, head also forward. He wore a suit of browns and dark tans. Shaven, seemingly of dense Aryan descent. He read some sort of paper, perhaps a letter, handwritten, barely legible and signed with a scribble. He seemed to work himself over it sternly. I watched as he lifted his eyes of it to think freely. He noticed my stare and i calmly looked away, urgency hidden. In a passing moment, i caught pure sight of his face and gathered that he was too young to be the man I sought. But his eyes would not relent as mine did. He looked on, discerningly... "Thomas?", he finally inquired. I looked back to him. In delay, I soon replied. "I am, are you the man I am to meet?" "I believe I am." he retorted with a smile. His accent was light but noticeable yet not quite of any distinguishable origin. We stood together and began to walk. I asked where he was from and I was delivered a word. I assumed it to be an answer to my question but it was no place I'd ever heard of. And now, having never heard of it again, I have no recollection of it's letters or sounds. Before I could ask him to repeat it, he followed it with stories. Hours worth of stories, all as we walked. Stories of places he had visited, people he had met, none of which I knew and therefore, held no value in being told to me. A queen of this country and a duke of the province of so-and-so. I was utterly taken back to hear of so many things i had no prior knowledge of. It fascinated me. Not his tales but merely by all the names I hadn't heard. I thought I knew a fair deal of geography. I was a traveling man too, but obviously nothing like this man. And to tell you how i felt upon arriving home that night, not being delivered that which was promised to me, that being a deepened knowledge of self, betrayed! completely betrayed! Such a false ring of the night bell. And now that i had answered it, it could never be made right.