Fantasy
The Last Train at Midnight
M Mehran Ethan was the kind of man who always missed things by a minute. He missed the bus by a minute, the elevator by a minute, even his father’s last phone call by a minute. Life had taught him to live with regret like a second skin. On his thirty-fifth birthday, after a long, bitter day at work, he found himself wandering the city streets aimlessly. That’s when he saw the train station—not the modern one, but an old building tucked between skyscrapers, its brickwork faded, its clock tower frozen at midnight. He had never noticed it before. Curious, he stepped inside. The hall smelled of coal and rain, though no one else seemed to be there. The ticket booth glowed faintly, and behind the glass sat a woman with hair the color of snow. “One ticket?” she asked, her voice echoing. Ethan frowned. “To where?” “Wherever you regret not going.” Something inside him lurched. He almost laughed, but her expression was too steady, too certain. Against his better judgment, he nodded. The woman handed him a slip of paper with no destination, only the words: Last Train. Midnight. When he stepped onto the platform, a black train was waiting. Steam curled from its engine, and its doors hissed open as though inviting him in. He boarded, heart pounding. Inside, the compartments were filled with people he recognized—not strangers, but versions of himself. There he was at fifteen, clutching his guitar with calloused fingers. At twenty-one, running breathless toward a girl he’d never confessed his love to. At twenty-eight, staring at a job offer he had turned down because he was afraid. Each version looked at him with eyes that burned with disappointment. “What is this?” Ethan whispered. The conductor appeared—a tall man in a dark uniform, his face hidden by shadow. “This is the train of missed chances,” he said. “Every regret you carry boards here. Tonight, you decide if you will ride with them forever, or leave them behind.” The train lurched forward. Through the windows, Ethan saw scenes flashing by—his past choices unfolding like film reels. The girl in the café he never spoke to. The audition he skipped. The letter to his father he never mailed. The weight of it crushed him. He buried his face in his hands. “Can I change any of it?” he asked hoarsely. The conductor’s voice was firm. “No. But you can stop riding the same tracks.” The words sank deep. Ethan looked at the versions of himself, their eyes haunted. Then he did something he’d never done—he stood. “I can’t take you with me,” he whispered. “You’re part of me, but you don’t own me anymore.” One by one, the other Ethans faded, until the compartment was empty. The train screeched to a halt. The conductor tipped his hat. “Then your stop has come.” Ethan stepped off onto a platform that glowed with morning light. The old station was gone; he stood in the real city again, his heart strangely light. For the first time in years, he wasn’t a minute late. He was exactly where he needed to be.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
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