A man stands at a train station in the middle of the night. Nameless and a vagrant, he will be gone by tomorrow. But today he is still here.

The wind blows at 70 miles per hour and delicate snowflakes cut the skin like a knife. They come for a moment then disappear into that utter darkness surrounding the station. Only the empty fluorescent light of the overhead lamps and the occasional train—which even then were sparse—broke the black embrace of night. The dull gray stone of the platform was comforted by neither snow nor trash; the strong wind brushes away anything that may try to find its home here.

The man stands in front of a small bulletin board nailed to the head house. His Russian green parka darts around in the wind, and he stays still, his gaze frozen straight ahead. He holds no ticket and doesn’t react when the trains arrive and depart exchanging no passengers. His hands tremble and his fingers have long turned blue, but he shows no pain: a cold so harsh numbs the burn. The suggestion of leaving would fall on deaf ears—having no reason to go is a reason to stay.

A small slip of paper flies through the air and catches itself between the board and the wall, squirming fruitlessly to be again carried away by the wind. Impenetrable as he is, the man faulters. He pushes the free end of the paper against the frigid stone bricks. The letter is stamped but not sealed, the shaky handwriting exposed to the world. It feels familiar.

“Anglioletto, come home for dinner this year. Mamma misses you.”

A screech along the tracks introduces the final train of December 23rd. Tentatively, the man stares at the soft yellow light shining from the train carriage before boarding. Tearful and warm, tomorrow he will be home for Christmas.