Between the Last Train and Dawn

The last train out of the city sighed into the station at 11:48 p.m., wheels hissing against the tracks.

Mara stepped aboard, her reflection flickering in the darkened windows before dissolving into the harsh fluorescent glow of the carriage.

The seats were mostly empty. She chose the far end, beneath a light that stuttered in irregular beats, as though unsure whether to stay awake or surrender to the dark. The air smelled faintly metallic — not unpleasant, but sharp, like a pocket of old coins.

The doors closed with a tired groan. The train shuddered forward.

It should have been an easy ride home: an hour to the coast, a short walk through quiet streets, and she’d be back in her apartment by one. But the envelope in her satchel felt heavier than anything she had ever carried.

No messages. No calls. Not from him.

She promised herself she wouldn’t check again.

As the city lights gave way to shadowed suburbs, she noticed the only other passenger in her carriage — a man in a frayed gray coat, two rows ahead. He sat perfectly still, head bent, as though listening to something deep underground.

Halfway through the journey, the train slowed to an unexpected crawl before stopping completely. The conductor’s voice crackled over the speakers:

“We’ll be here a few minutes. Technical issue ahead.”

A few minutes stretched into fifteen. The man in the gray coat finally turned his head. His face was pale in the flicker, his eyes restless but alert.

“You heading home?” he asked, voice low but steady.

“Yes,” Mara replied, her hand tightening around her satchel.

“Funny thing about trains,” he murmured. “They take you away from something just as much as they take you toward something.”

She didn’t answer.

The train moved again. Mara turned her face to the glass, letting the rhythm of the tracks press against the chaos in her mind. She thought of the letter she had signed tonight — a clean severing of two years. She had left it on his desk while he was out, her handwriting small and deliberate. No goodbye, just the truth in ink.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry.

At the penultimate station, the man in the gray coat rose and stepped onto the platform without looking back. As the train pulled away, Mara saw him under the dim yellow light, staring down the track in the opposite direction, as if waiting for a train that would never come.

When she reached her stop, the town lay silent. The scent of the sea drifted inland, mingling with the damp air. Her footsteps echoed against the slick pavement.

Halfway home, she saw him.

Not the man from the train — him. The reason for the envelope.

He leaned against the lamppost outside her building, hands deep in his pockets, hair damp with mist.

“Mara,” he said when she approached. His voice was softer than she remembered, almost uncertain.

She stopped a few steps away. “How did you—”

“I got home early. Saw the letter.” He stepped closer, the lamplight pulling the shadows from his face. “You could’ve told me in person.”

“I couldn’t,” she said. “You’d have convinced me to stay.”

“Would that have been so bad?”

She thought of the last year — the slow erasure of herself, the arguments that left her hollow, the way her dreams had begun to fade like ink left in the sun.

“Yes,” she said finally.

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the hum of the streetlight. Somewhere beyond the buildings, a gull cried into the dark.

He studied her face as if memorizing it, then gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. “Okay.”

And he walked away.

Inside her apartment, the clock read 2:07 a.m. She left the lights off and stepped onto the balcony. The sea was a black expanse, the horizon invisible.

She stayed there, waiting.

When the first thread of gold unstitched the sky, Mara realized the night had taken her apart in pieces.

By dawn, she was still carrying the weight — but only the part that belonged to her.