Kenmore Station sits between two busy roads, hemmed in by a near constant stream of traffic.
The buildings (old worn brick and faded paint, towers with rounded sides and pointed tops, renovated, condemned, renovated) line the way, with shops and businesses. They opened under different names a long time ago and closed and reopened again.
The station is always busy, with people heading in and out. It’s a small nexus where the buses and trains meet in one single point and then spread out again through the city. Below the buses, trains move underground, shuttling through the tunnels.
The people, above and below, vary wildly. There are students, many students, going to and from school. There workers, retired folks, unemployeds. There are homeless and crazy, some sitting and staring, but not seeing or hearing, vacant agitation awaiting stimulus. Others keep to the side.
There are the loud people shouting, bellowing greeting to one another and greetings are returned.
Smokers off to the side, billowing grey air, isolated from the others.
Foreign voices in half a dozen languages: trilling, guttural, nasal, singsong, rapid fire, languid languages.
The buses bring them all here and then take them away again.
Dylan Charles
dylancharles.net 
a word picture
You write so well that I don’t read it I see the story.