A few years ago, whenever I had business in Manhattan, stepping into Penn Station required great courage. After several bad experiences—getting lost in the maze of one‑way streets or paying outrageous parking fees—I learned to take the train instead of driving. Yet even now, I still cannot grasp the full size of Penn Station. Each time I arrived, I wandered in confusion, unsure which exit would lead me in the right direction. The rushing crowds—sometimes flowing like a rapid river, sometimes pouring down like a waterfall—left me dizzy and overwhelmed.

But somewhere along the way, I began to feel an indescribable affection for Penn Station. I started to see in it a small portrait of life itself.

There is beauty in Penn Station. Though tens of thousands hurry through without a second to spare, the flower stands at every corner stop even the busiest gentlemen and ladies in their tracks. In a single bouquet, people carry unspoken words and quiet love as they rush onward. In the golden calm of sunflowers that have fulfilled their purpose, I hear the song of birds rising boldly into the wind. New Yorkers, determined not to miss the fading sensations of the season, color the dreams of new immigrants who sell these flowers.

There is music in Penn Station. The hoarse trumpet player, the string trio, the gospel soloist, the young violin student—all offer a festival of sound to those waiting for their trains. The performers, sweating as they play, are met not with indifference but with generous applause and the soft flutter of bills tossed into open cases. In this spontaneous concert without invitations, gratitude flows freely between performer and passerby.

There are keepers in Penn Station. Even after the crowds have rushed home, some remain—those who guard the station simply by being there. They spend the day in the sunlit canyons of the city, then return at night seeking shelter from the cold. They settle quietly in a corner of the stairs, bow their heads, and fall asleep without complaint. At dawn, when the tide of commuters returns, they rise and leave without hesitation, giving up even that small space with grace. People step over the spot countless times without noticing, but the one who slept there carries away a bit of rest and peace in his heart. And he hopes silently: Someday, I too will have a place to go. Someday, I too will have work to do.

There is trust and love in Penn Station. One homeless man always travels with three or four cats, his little “business.” They say no country pampers animals like America, but watching the kittens follow him, I realize how precious it is—for human or animal—to have a home and a family. People stop to pet the kittens and drop bills into his worn cardboard box. The cats trust him completely. No matter how many strangers hold them, the one who feeds and protects them is the one they love most.

There is gratitude in Penn Station. Amid the tangled rails and endless arrivals, I am grateful that I can return to the home where my family waits. Once, I boarded the wrong train and ended up in a strange station, wandering all night in the dark. In that lonely place, I longed desperately just to reach Penn Station again. When I finally returned, the sigh of relief blossomed into fresh joy.

Penn Station has clear destinations. Those who know where they are going do not wander. Watching the crowds surge toward their platforms at the signal board’s command, I thought of that day—the day only the Father knows—when sheep and goats will be separated, and our paths will be divided just as clearly. I am reminded that my path cannot be the same as everyone else’s. I cannot run simply because others run.

In the crossing of those who depart and those who arrive, time rushes forward relentlessly. Even with flowers, music, and compassion, Penn Station is only a waiting place. When the moment comes, we must leave without hesitation for the train that is ours. Perhaps that is why I feel such affection for it.

Penn Station may hold beauty, romance, love, and gratitude—but it can never be our final home.

Today again, I pass through Penn Station among countless strangers who come and go without noticing one another.

— Yoon Wan‑Hee, June 16, 1997