Echoes of the Lost Time

The train screeched to a halt at a station that wasn’t supposed to exist. Jonathan blinked, rubbing his eyes as he peered out the window. The signpost read “Hollowbrook”, but that name meant nothing to him. It wasn’t on any map he had seen, nor was it on his itinerary. The platform was dimly lit by old gas lamps, their flickering glow casting eerie shadows over the cobblestone ground.

He turned to the other passengers, but none seemed to notice anything unusual. A woman beside him read a book, an old man gazed out at the rain, and a child slept soundly in his mother’s arms. It was as if nothing had changed—except it had.

Jonathan hesitated before stepping out of the carriage, his leather suitcase in hand. The cold air wrapped around him like an unseen force, whispering secrets from a time long forgotten. The train gave a final hiss and, without warning, began moving again. Jonathan spun on his heel, waving frantically.

“Wait! This isn’t my stop!”

But the conductor ignored him, and the train vanished into the night, swallowed by an unnatural fog.

Jonathan’s heart pounded. He was alone.

The station itself was eerily quiet, abandoned yet untouched by time. He spotted an old stationmaster’s office, its wooden sign swinging in the cold breeze. With no other options, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was lit by a single oil lamp, casting long shadows across the dusty wooden floor. A large clock on the wall ticked in a slow, almost deliberate rhythm. It was wrong. The hands weren’t moving forward—they were moving backward.

He felt the hairs on his arms rise. Something wasn’t right.

A stack of yellowed newspapers sat on a desk, and Jonathan reached for the topmost one. The date read March 17, 1897. His breath caught in his throat. That was impossible. He was in 2025.

A faint rustling sound made him freeze. He turned, half-expecting to see another lost traveler, but there was no one. Just the echoes of footsteps that didn’t belong to him. He swallowed hard.

Then he saw it—a reflection in the glass of the office window. A tall figure stood behind him, clad in an old-fashioned suit, his face obscured by the dim light.

Jonathan spun around. The room was empty.

A chill crept up his spine. He had to leave. Now.

Gripping his suitcase, he rushed outside. The station was no longer empty. People in Victorian-era clothing wandered aimlessly, their expressions vacant. Carriages rumbled along streets that hadn’t existed minutes before. It was as if he had stepped into a different time—a different reality.

Jonathan’s pulse raced. He was stuck in the past.

Desperation took hold. He grabbed a passerby by the shoulder. “Excuse me! Where am I?”

The man frowned. “Hollowbrook, of course.”

“But this place—this year—it’s not real. I was on a train. I was—”

The man gave him a wary look and pulled away.

Jonathan turned frantically, searching for answers. That’s when he saw the newspaper stand. He ran to it, scanning the headlines. “Hollowbrook Station Tragedy: Time Stops for the Lost.”

His blood ran cold.

The article detailed an event from 1897—how a train had mysteriously vanished along its route, only to reappear years later with no passengers aboard. Those who stepped onto Hollowbrook Station were never seen again.

Jonathan’s breath came in shallow gasps. This wasn’t just some dream. He was part of the legend now.

But there had to be a way out.

He sprinted back toward the platform. The clock above the station still ticked backward. Faster now. Almost as if it was unraveling time itself.

A train whistle echoed in the distance. Hope surged in his chest. He turned toward the tracks, watching as a train—his train—approached through the fog. It was impossible, but here it was.

The moment the doors opened, he ran. The world around him blurred, shadows stretching and twisting as he hurled himself inside. The doors slammed shut, and with a jolt, the train moved forward.

Jonathan collapsed into a seat, his heart pounding. The train sped past Hollowbrook, past the fog, past the ghostly echoes of time itself.

And then—silence.

He looked up. The station was gone.

The train conductor walked past, nodding at him as if nothing had happened. The world outside looked normal again. Modern. Real.

Jonathan exhaled deeply, his fingers still trembling. Had it been real? A hallucination?

Then, something caught his eye. In his lap sat an old newspaper, the headline still fresh: “Hollowbrook Station Tragedy: Time Stops for the Lost.”

A whisper brushed against his ear.

“You were never supposed to leave.”

Jonathan clutched the paper tightly, dread creeping over him.

Maybe, just maybe, he never really did.