The Last Passenger

Rain fell in soft waves against the train window as the 7:15 evening express rolled through the countryside, the landscape blurred like a half-forgotten dream. Claire Hart sat alone in Carriage B, clutching her leather satchel with fingers too cold for August. The train was unusually quiet. No chatter. No conductor. Just silence and the low hum of motion.

She checked her phone—no signal. Again.

Claire had boarded the train from Greystone Station an hour ago, heading back to the city after a funeral in her hometown. Her brother Michael, only 34. Sudden heart attack. A life ended mid-sentence.

Now, she was headed back to her own life, the one with endless meetings, takeout dinners, and text messages that said “We should catch up soon!” but never meant it.

She looked around. Not a single soul in sight. Maybe she was in the wrong carriage? Maybe everyone had moved for some reason—maintenance, something technical. She stood, stretching her legs, and stepped into the next car.

Empty.

Next one.

Also empty.

The dining car had tables still set, untouched tea cups rattling slightly with the train’s movement. A half-eaten biscuit rested on one saucer, as if its owner had just stepped away.

Her stomach twisted.

This wasn’t normal.

Claire rushed to the front of the train. No conductors, no engineers. Nothing. The driver’s cabin was locked, of course. She pounded on the door, but no one answered.

She wasn’t panicking.

Not yet.

Returning to her seat, she spotted something strange. A single ticket stub sitting on the seat opposite hers. It hadn’t been there before. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand. It wasn’t hers. Different name.

Passenger Name: Isaac Whitmore
Seat: B4
Departure: Greystone Station
Arrival: King’s Hollow
Date: August 6

Same as her. But no one had sat in B4 when she boarded. She was sure of it.

“Excuse me,” a voice said softly behind her.

Claire turned so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.

An older man, maybe mid-sixties, stood there in a long grey coat, damp from the rain. His hands trembled as he reached for the luggage rack above seat B4 and pulled down a worn brown suitcase.

“I—” Claire started, but the man looked at her and gave the kind of smile you reserve for strangers on buses and in elevators. Polite. Distant.

“I believe you have my ticket,” he said gently, gesturing to the stub in her hand.

Claire blinked. “Sorry, I didn’t—there was no one—”

“No need to explain. These things have a way of finding their way back.” He took the stub with care and sat down across from her, folding his hands in his lap.

The train continued to move, gently swaying.

Claire watched him for a long moment. “I thought I was alone,” she said finally.

The man nodded. “Most people do, until they’re not.”

His words were cryptic, but not threatening. There was something familiar about him, in the way a scent or song brings back a memory you can’t quite place.

“You knew someone in Greystone?” she asked, unsure why she felt compelled to fill the silence.

“Yes,” he said after a pause. “I came to say goodbye.”

Claire’s breath caught. “Me too,” she said. “My brother. He died last week.”

“I know,” he said softly.

She froze. “What?”

The man smiled again, that same patient smile. “Michael Hart. He played guitar, right? He used to sing Beatles songs when you couldn’t sleep.”

Claire’s mouth went dry. “How do you know that?”

The train gave a soft lurch, and outside, the world had gone darker, the rain now misting rather than falling. She stood up suddenly, heart pounding.

“Who are you?”

The man didn’t move. “Sit, Claire.”

She did, against her own instincts, like her body had made the choice for her.

He looked out the window, then back at her.

“You’re not supposed to be on this train,” he said gently. “Not yet.”

“I don’t understand.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper clipping. He slid it across the table.

It was her brother’s obituary.

She remembered helping write it, every word a dagger.

She flipped the paper over.

On the back was a short headline:

“Train Derailment Avoided After Last-Minute Track Inspection.”
Date: August 6

But something was off.

Her eyes scanned the article. No mention of her train. It wasn’t avoided—the wording said it had happened.

Claire’s stomach dropped.

“I died,” she whispered.

The man shook his head. “Not yet. But you were meant to. This train wasn’t going to make it. A signal error, a missed inspection. Everyone aboard… gone.”

Claire’s head spun. “But… then why am I still here?”

He looked at her, eyes soft.

“Because you weren’t ready to go.”

The rain outside had stopped.

The train slowed.

“I don’t want to die,” Claire said quietly.

“No one does. But you… you held on. Somehow. Maybe it was the grief. Or maybe it was something stronger.”

The train screeched gently as it began to pull into a station.

A glowing sign read:

Return Point – One Way

Claire looked out the window. The platform was empty, fog curling like smoke around the benches.

“You can step off,” the man said. “And wake up. You’ll be in a hospital. Tubes, machines. But alive.”

“And you?” she asked, her voice small.

He smiled again, but this time it was tinged with something sad.

“I’m the last passenger. I stay until the last seat is empty.”

Realization bloomed slowly in her chest.

“You’re not real,” she said. “Or maybe not alive.”

“I was once. Long ago. My family never knew I didn’t make it home. So I stayed. Helping others off the train. One at a time.”

Claire stood.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Tell Michael something for me?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Tell him… I liked his version of Hey Jude best.”

Tears stung her eyes. “You knew him?”

He nodded once, just as the doors opened.

Claire stepped off.

She awoke three days later in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines and the smell of antiseptic. Her lungs ached. Her head throbbed.

But she was alive.

The nurse called for the doctor. Her mother cried. Her father, who hadn’t spoken since the funeral, kissed her hand and didn’t let go.

And Claire, through tears and hoarseness, whispered a name.

“Isaac Whitmore.”

They didn’t know who he was.

But she did.

The last passenger.

And the reason she came back.