You Are Here: The Last Train to Platform Zero

You arrive at the station three minutes after midnight.

You are not supposed to be here.

The station closed at eleven.

You know this because the electronic departure board says so.

Every destination is marked CANCELLED.

Every clock has stopped at 12:03.

There should be nobody here.

And yet someone is waiting on Platform Zero.

You have never seen a Platform Zero.

The station has Platforms One through Eight. You have used most of them. You know the building well enough to recognize when something is wrong.

Tonight, there is a staircase behind Platform Eight.

You are certain it wasn't there yesterday.

You walk toward it.

At the bottom, a narrow sign hangs from the ceiling.

PLATFORM 0

The arrow points down.

You should turn around.

Instead, you descend.

The stairs seem longer than they should be.

Your footsteps echo beneath you.

Then you hear another set.

You stop.

The footsteps stop.

You continue.

They continue.

At the bottom, you find a platform stretching into darkness.

There is no station name.

No advertisements.

No vending machines.

Only a bench and a woman sitting beneath a dead lamp.

She looks at you.

"You came."

You don't remember meeting her.

You ask when the train arrives.

She checks a small silver watch.

"Three minutes."

You look at the tracks.

There are no rails.

Only darkness.

Then, far away, a light appears.

It grows larger.

You hear the sound of an approaching train.

But there is no wind.

No vibration.

Nothing moves.

The train simply appears.

One moment the tracks are empty.

The next, an old black carriage stands in front of you.

Its windows are dark.

Its doors open.

The woman rises.

"You first."

You don't move.

She smiles.

"You bought the ticket."

You look down.

There is a ticket in your hand.

You don't remember buying it.

Your name is printed on it.

Underneath your name are two words.

ONE WAY

You step aboard.

The woman follows.

Inside, the carriage is almost empty.

Almost.

There are seven passengers.

They sit perfectly still.

Nobody looks at you.

You walk down the aisle.

Every seat is old-fashioned.

Every window shows darkness.

Then the train begins moving.

You sit opposite an elderly man.

He looks up.

"You took your time."

You ask where the train is going.

He doesn't answer.

Instead, he points toward the window.

You look outside.

You see your childhood home.

For one second, you see yourself standing in the garden.

You are eight years old.

You are holding a red balloon.

You remember that day.

You had forgotten the balloon.

The train continues.

The house disappears.

Now you see your old school.

You see yourself walking through the front gate.

Then your first apartment.

Your first job.

A street you lived on.

A person you loved.

Places you haven't visited in years.

Places you had deliberately forgotten.

The train passes through all of them.

The elderly man watches you.

"You understand now?"

You shake your head.

He smiles sadly.

"You're not traveling somewhere."

The lights flicker.

"You're traveling through what you left behind."

The train stops.

The doors open.

Nobody gets off.

Outside is your childhood bedroom.

You recognize the wallpaper.

The wooden desk.

The narrow bed.

You can see yourself sleeping beneath the blankets.

You hear a voice.

Your own voice.

A younger version of you is whispering into the darkness.

"Please don't leave."

You step toward the open door.

The elderly man grabs your wrist.

"Don't."

You pull away.

"That's you."

"No," he says.

"That's what you were."

You look back at the child.

The child sits up.

Slowly.

Then turns toward you.

You cannot see the child's face.

Not clearly.

Something is wrong with it.

The train doors close.

The carriage moves again.

The woman from the platform walks toward you.

"You have one stop left."

You ask where.

She points down the carriage.

At the final door.

You open it.

Beyond it is your own front door.

You are standing outside your home.

The woman remains behind you.

"You can get off here."

You look at the house.

The lights are on.

Someone is inside.

You hear laughter.

You hear music.

You hear dishes being placed on a table.

You hear a familiar voice.

A voice you haven't heard in years.

You step toward the door.

The woman says nothing.

You open it.

Inside is everyone you have lost.

Everyone you left.

Everyone you never said goodbye to.

They are sitting around a dinner table.

They look exactly as they did when you knew them.

Nobody speaks.

You walk toward the table.

There is one empty chair.

Your chair.

You sit.

For the first time since boarding the train, you feel warm.

Someone places a plate in front of you.

Someone pours a drink.

Someone touches your hand.

You close your eyes.

You have forgotten how good it feels to be somewhere you belong.

Then you notice something.

Nobody is eating.

Nobody is drinking.

Nobody is breathing.

You open your eyes.

Every person at the table is looking at you.

The familiar voice speaks.

"You can stay."

Your heart begins to pound.

You look toward the door.

It is gone.

There is only a wall.

You stand.

The room changes.

The people disappear.

The table disappears.

The house disappears.

You are back on the train.

The woman stands beside you.

"You were warned."

You ask her what happens now.

She points toward the window.

The train is slowing.

Ahead, a platform appears.

A single sign hangs above it.

PLATFORM 0

The train stops.

The doors open.

You step outside.

The platform is empty.

You turn around.

The train is gone.

You are alone.

Then you notice the station above you.

It is the station you entered tonight.

The same clock.

The same departure board.

The same staircase.

You climb.

At the top, you see the main concourse.

People are arriving for the morning trains.

Commuters hurry past.

Announcements echo overhead.

Everything is normal.

You walk toward the exit.

Then you see yourself.

Standing beside the ticket machines.

Three minutes after midnight.

The version of you from tonight is staring at the staircase.

About to descend.

About to make the same mistake.

You understand.

You were never the passenger.

You were the destination.

You try to shout.

No sound comes.

You run toward yourself.

The other you turns.

For one second, your eyes meet.

You see the fear.

You see the confusion.

You see the ticket in your hand.

Then you hear your own voice.

"You came."

The station disappears.

The darkness returns.

And you are sitting once again on Platform Zero.

Waiting.

You don't know how long you have been there.

Perhaps hours.

Perhaps years.

The dead lamp above you flickers.

A train approaches.

You stand.

A stranger appears at the top of the stairs.

You recognize the expression immediately.

Confusion.

Curiosity.

The certainty that something is wrong.

The stranger looks at you.

You smile.

"You came."

And when the train doors open, you hear yourself say the words you have been waiting all this time to say.

"You first."