I Boarded a Train That Shouldn’t Exist — and Woke Up in a City Without Direction

It started with the sound of wheels — not in my head, but out there.

Somewhere.

Somehow.

I was sitting on a bench in a train station I didn’t remember entering. No ticket in hand. No bags. Just me, shivering slightly in a coat that still smelled faintly of rain and old cologne.

I could’ve sworn I had been walking home a few minutes ago. Maybe even talking on the phone? But now, there I was — platform 9, or 10, or... none? There weren’t any signs.

That’s when the train pulled in.

It wasn’t loud. No screeching brakes or clunky arrival. It just… appeared.

Sleek, silver, faintly glowing. The kind of train you’d see in an artist’s dream or a child's sci-fi drawing.

No one else was on the platform. No announcement. No conductor waving a flag.

Just the doors hissing open — waiting.

And, like a fool or a dreamer, I stepped in.

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— The Train Ride —

Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet.

No engine rumble. No intercom. Just silence and dim, humming lights.

The windows didn’t show outside. Just a soft white mist, like we were floating.

I sat down near the back.

Every seat was empty.

I kept thinking: This isn’t normal. This isn’t real.

But I didn’t panic. Oddly, I felt calm. Like I was exactly where I needed to be — even though I didn’t know where that was.

I tried checking my phone.

Dead. No signal.

Of course.

The train began to move — smoothly, silently — and I swear I saw something shift in the window. Not buildings, not countryside. Just… shadows. Faces maybe. Or memories.

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— Arrival —

I must’ve dozed off. Or blacked out. Or blinked.

Because suddenly, we stopped.

And the doors slid open.

I stepped out onto another platform — one I didn’t recognize. It was cold. The air had a metallic taste, like biting a battery. No people. No signs. Just a staircase leading up to... somewhere.

I climbed it.

At the top was a city. Or something pretending to be one.

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— The City Without Direction —

The buildings were real enough, but the roads didn’t lead anywhere. They twisted, looped, ended in staircases that rose into the sky. There were no street names. No addresses. Just turns and forks and dead ends.

I wandered.

No one looked at me. The few people I passed had glassy eyes and lips that moved like they were whispering secrets to ghosts. One woman kept rearranging plastic fruit on a table that wasn’t even hers.

I asked a man — tall, gray suit, no tie — “What city is this?”

He just smiled and said,

> “You’re in between.”

“In between what?” I asked.

His smile widened.

> “That depends on what you left behind.”

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— Memories Fade —

Time got blurry.

Sometimes it felt like minutes had passed. Other times, hours or years. I’d turn a corner expecting the same street, and suddenly I’d be at the edge of a cliff looking out over black water.

I tried retracing my steps. Couldn’t.

Even my thoughts were fading — names, places, even my mother’s face. Gone.

I wrote things down on scraps of paper:

"Your name is Sam."

"You’re from Chicago."

"Don’t forget who you are."

But eventually, I lost the pen. And then the papers.

Or maybe I left them on the train.

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— The Moment I Broke —

There was a moment — I don’t know how long after I arrived — when I looked in a shop window and didn’t recognize my reflection.

The man staring back had my eyes. But older. Tired. His hair had streaks of gray. His shoulders sagged like he’d been carrying the weight of years — even if I only remembered days.

That’s when I broke.

I sat down on the curb and cried. Not loudly. Just a quiet, choking kind of sobbing. Like I’d been holding in a scream for too long.

No one stopped. No one looked.

Maybe they’d cried too. Maybe they didn’t remember how.

---

— The Way Out —

Just when I gave up — just when I accepted I might never leave — I heard it.

A whistle.

Distant, low. But real.

I ran.

Down alleys. Across crooked bridges. Past broken clocks and whispering statues.

Until I saw it — the same glowing train, waiting silently on a new platform.

I didn’t question it.

I boarded.

The door slid shut.

This time, the windows showed something.

Not the world I left, exactly — but pieces. My brother’s laughter. A birthday cake. My first apartment. My dog chasing leaves in the fall.

When I woke up…

I was back on my couch.

No train. No mist. Just morning sunlight through the blinds and the sound of traffic outside.

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— Now —

Sometimes I wonder if it was a dream. Or a hallucination. Or something else.

But sometimes, late at night, I’ll hear that same whistle — faint, like a memory calling me back.

And I think:

Maybe I didn’t find my way out.

Maybe I’m still there.

Maybe we all are.

Just trying to remember the way home.

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Author’s Note:

I still don’t know where that train came from. But if you ever find yourself alone on a platform you don’t remember walking to…

Don’t board.

Or do.

But write it down — while you still remember your name.

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