The Train That Arrived Yesterday

It pulled into the station at 3:47 a.m., completely silent. No schedule, no announcement, no crew. Just a dim golden glow through the windows.

When the conductor appeared, his uniform was immaculate but old — a century out of fashion. He tipped his hat to the night porter and said, “We’re early today. Or perhaps late.”

No one boarded at first. But when the storm hit and power went out, the stranded passengers climbed aboard for shelter. The train was warm. Too warm. The air smelled faintly of smoke and iron.

As they sat, they noticed the world outside wasn’t moving. Trees were frozen mid-sway. Rain hung in the air like glass beads.

Then the whistle blew — not loud, but deep, like the earth itself exhaling.

When the power returned to the station, the tracks were empty. The dispatcher checked the logs. The last record of that train was from 1912.

Now, every few years, it returns. Always at 3:47 a.m. Always early. Always yesterday.