Steven LaChance Blog

Yesterday, in the heart of the Madrid train station, we stood shoulder to shoulder in a dense, unmoving crowd. We waited more than four hours to pass through security, just to reach our train platform. Our train was delayed by three hours, and the atmosphere was thick with heat, frustration, and fatigue. The crowd pulsed with that quiet kind of stress that comes when people are packed too tightly, for too long.

In front of us stood an older man. He began to sway, just a little. It was the kind of thing you almost wouldn’t notice—until you did. Someone with him saw it and gently took his arm, trying to help guide him out of the crush of bodies. They only made it three steps before the man collapsed to the floor.

He was unconscious before he hit the ground. His skin had already turned—a pallor that needed no explanation. A doctor nearby rushed over. He checked the man’s pulse. A girl standing close asked quietly, “Does he need a medic?”

The doctor shook his head and said, softly, “He’s gone.”

And that was it.

Police arrived and moved him from the crowd—not with a stretcher, but by his arms and legs. They lifted him like a bag of belongings and carried him off. And the rest of us? We just stood there, stunned. Then, slowly, life resumed. The line moved again. The announcements continued. But something inside me didn’t move forward at all.

I was—and still am—so incredibly sad.

I kept thinking: Was that really it? A life, carried off so abruptly, without pause, without dignity? Shouldn’t there have been more? Shouldn’t there always be more? More care. More reverence. More humanity.

You all know me. My mind spiraled. Who was he? Where was he going? Was someone waiting on the other end of that journey? Maybe grandchildren clutching homemade signs. Maybe a spouse waiting at the window. Now they’ll wait and wait—and no one will come.

I said a prayer for him. Then another. Then more. It felt so small, but it was all I had.

What struck me most was how quickly it all happened, and how little ceremony there was in the end. And I guess… that’s life, isn’t it? Sudden. Unfair. Beautiful. Brutal. One moment we’re standing, breathing, moving forward—and the next, we’re gone.

So here’s the reminder, the only one that makes sense after witnessing something like that: Live. Live like today is the last day you’ll ever have. Because one day—it will be.

I wrote this and shared this story in memory of the old man—a stranger I never met, whose name I’ll never know, but who I will always remember.