Satire
The Last Train Home
The Last Train Home By Abdul Muhammad The station was nearly empty when I arrived. A single overhead light buzzed and flickered as I stood on the platform, clutching my backpack like it was a lifeline. The last train of the night shrieked in the distance, echoing against the concrete walls.
By Abdul Muhammad about a year ago in Fiction
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By Conor Matthewsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Train That Never Stops
M Mehran Every night at exactly 2:13 a.m., Sam heard the train. It was impossible. The town’s railway station had been closed for nearly twenty years, the tracks long abandoned, weeds curling around the rusted rails. Yet, like clockwork, the whistle echoed through the valley, low and mournful, followed by the distant rattle of wheels. Sam never told anyone. They’d laugh, say it was the wind or his imagination. But he knew what he heard. And deep down, he knew it was calling him. On the anniversary of his father’s death, sleepless and restless, Sam finally gave in. He pulled on his jacket and followed the sound. The moon was high, silvering the broken tracks as he walked. When the whistle blew again, he froze. Up ahead, where the station had crumbled into nothing but brick skeletons, a train stood. Its cars gleamed midnight black, polished as if fresh from the factory. Golden lamps burned in the windows, and steam hissed softly into the night air. The sign above the station—long fallen years ago—glowed faintly with words he could barely read: The Midnight Line. The doors opened with a sigh. Sam’s heart pounded. He should have run, but grief and curiosity overpowered fear. He stepped inside. --- The train was alive with light. Velvet seats lined the compartments, chandeliers swayed gently above, and an old-fashioned bar sparkled with crystal glasses. Yet no passengers filled the seats. Only shadows lingered, faint outlines that dissolved when he looked too closely. At the far end, a conductor in a crisp uniform waited. His face was obscured beneath the brim of his cap, but his voice was smooth as polished wood. “Welcome aboard, Samuel.” Sam stiffened. “How do you know my name?” The conductor smiled faintly. “I know every traveler who boards. The Midnight Line runs only for those who need it.” Sam swallowed hard. “Need it for what?” The conductor tilted his head. “To visit what they’ve lost.” Sam’s breath caught. His father’s face surged in his mind—his laughter, his rough hands, the way he used to ruffle Sam’s hair before bed. “Is he here?” Sam whispered. The conductor stepped aside, gesturing toward the corridor. “Your destination awaits.” --- Sam moved from car to car. In the first, he saw a child clutching a tattered teddy bear. She looked up with wide, tearful eyes. For a heartbeat, he thought she was real—but she faded into mist, leaving only the bear behind. In the next car, an old woman hummed a lullaby. Her voice broke into silence before she too dissolved. Each car held echoes of people long gone, fragments of memory caught in the train’s current. Sam’s chest ached as he passed them, the air thick with longing. Finally, he reached the last car. There, seated at a table by the window, was his father. Solid. Whole. Just as he remembered—broad-shouldered, tired eyes, a gentle smile when he saw Sam. For a moment, Sam couldn’t breathe. His knees buckled, and he sank into the seat across from him. “Dad?” “Hey, kiddo.” His father’s voice was exactly the same—warm, steady. “Took you long enough.” Tears blurred Sam’s vision. “I thought I’d never see you again.” “You weren’t supposed to,” his father said softly. “But the Line… it bends rules, now and then. Gives people a chance to say what they left unsaid.” Sam gripped the table. “Then listen. I’m sorry. For not being there that night. For ignoring your calls. For—” His father raised a hand. “None of that matters now. I don’t blame you. I never did.” Sam’s throat burned. “Then what does matter?” “That you live. Really live. Not just for me. For yourself.” His father leaned forward, eyes shining. “Promise me, Sam. No more letting days slip by like sand. No more waiting for tomorrow to start over.” Sam nodded, tears streaming. “I promise.” The whistle blew again, louder this time. The train began to shudder. His father stood. “Time’s almost up.” Sam panicked. “Wait—can’t I stay? Just a little longer?” His father placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you stay, you’ll never leave. And your story isn’t done yet.” The car dissolved around them. His father’s outline blurred, light spilling through. “Goodbye, son. Keep your promise.” “Dad!” Sam cried, reaching— But his hand closed on empty air. --- Sam woke sprawled on the cold platform of the ruined station. The sun was rising, gold over the hills. The tracks lay rusted, silent. Yet in his hand, he clutched a small object: a brass train whistle, gleaming as though new. He stared at it, heart pounding. For the first time in years, the weight in his chest had lifted. His father was gone, yes. But he’d been given something rarer than a second chance—permission to move forward. Sam stood, pocketed the whistle, and walked back toward town. The day stretched before him, bright and unfinished. He had promised. And this time, he intended to keep it.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
