The howling wind outside the train station sounded like a beast clawing at the windows. Snow battered the walls, piling higher by the minute. Inside, a group of six strangers huddled near a potbelly stove, the only source of warmth in the dim, drafty room.

“I should’ve stayed in Boston,” muttered Mr. Archer, a stout banker in a wool coat that barely held back the chill. His spectacles fogged as he exhaled. “This is madness.”

“You think Boston’s better?” replied Miss Clara, a sharp-eyed schoolteacher with a tattered shawl draped over her shoulders. “My pupils haven’t eaten in days. I was heading to Albany to ask for relief. Boston’s no kinder than this storm.”

A young boy, no older than ten, tugged at Clara’s sleeve. “Miss, do you think the trains will run soon?” His voice was thin, shaky, his oversized coat swallowing him whole.

Clara knelt, brushing snow from his hair. “I don’t know, Tommy. But we’re safe here, and that’s what matters.”

“Safe,” scoffed Mrs. Hargrove, a widow with a stern face, her hands busily knitting a scarf from mismatched yarn. “Safe from the storm, maybe. But what about tomorrow? What if no one comes?”

“We’ll manage,” said Elijah, a wiry man with coal-streaked hands who’d introduced himself as a railway worker. “Trains don’t stop for long. Even in a storm like this, they’ll send help.” His voice carried a quiet confidence, but his eyes flickered to the door, betraying his doubt.

By the window, a young woman with a dark braid and a foreign accent leaned against the frame, watching the snow swirl. “In my village,” she began, her voice soft, “when storms came, we lit lanterns and sang to keep the dark away. My father always said storms are tests of the spirit.”

“What’s your name?” Clara asked.

“Anya,” the woman replied, offering a faint smile. “I came from Russia. For work.”

“And found this instead,” muttered Mr. Archer.

As the hours dragged on, the group shared pieces of themselves. Mrs. Hargrove revealed she’d lost her husband in the war and had been traveling to live with her sister. Elijah spoke of his years laying tracks, the hard labor that left him with little but pride. Clara described her classroom, a single-room schoolhouse filled with children too poor to bring books. Even Tommy, clutching a faded newspaper, spoke of his journey to meet an uncle he’d never met.

“Funny,” said Elijah, leaning back against the wall. “You sit long enough in a storm like this, and strangers don’t seem so strange anymore.”

No one responded, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. The blizzard outside still raged, but the room felt warmer somehow.

When the storm began to ease, faint rays of sunlight seeped through the windows. Outside, the snowdrifts reached nearly to the roof, but the world was eerily quiet, as if holding its breath.

Elijah stood and stretched, his back cracking audibly. “Reckon it’s time to dig out,” he said, grabbing a coal shovel from the corner.

One by one, the others stood to help. Even Tommy, too small to do much, brushed snow from the doorway with his mittened hands.

As they worked together, strangers turned into companions, united not just by survival but by the simple humanity of weathering a storm.