The Last Train at Midnight

M Mehran

Ethan was the kind of man who always missed things by a minute. He missed the bus by a minute, the elevator by a minute, even his father’s last phone call by a minute. Life had taught him to live with regret like a second skin.

On his thirty-fifth birthday, after a long, bitter day at work, he found himself wandering the city streets aimlessly. That’s when he saw the train station—not the modern one, but an old building tucked between skyscrapers, its brickwork faded, its clock tower frozen at midnight.

He had never noticed it before.

Curious, he stepped inside. The hall smelled of coal and rain, though no one else seemed to be there. The ticket booth glowed faintly, and behind the glass sat a woman with hair the color of snow.

“One ticket?” she asked, her voice echoing.

Ethan frowned. “To where?”

“Wherever you regret not going.”

Something inside him lurched. He almost laughed, but her expression was too steady, too certain. Against his better judgment, he nodded.

The woman handed him a slip of paper with no destination, only the words: Last Train. Midnight.

When he stepped onto the platform, a black train was waiting. Steam curled from its engine, and its doors hissed open as though inviting him in. He boarded, heart pounding.

Inside, the compartments were filled with people he recognized—not strangers, but versions of himself. There he was at fifteen, clutching his guitar with calloused fingers. At twenty-one, running breathless toward a girl he’d never confessed his love to. At twenty-eight, staring at a job offer he had turned down because he was afraid.

Each version looked at him with eyes that burned with disappointment.

“What is this?” Ethan whispered.

The conductor appeared—a tall man in a dark uniform, his face hidden by shadow. “This is the train of missed chances,” he said. “Every regret you carry boards here. Tonight, you decide if you will ride with them forever, or leave them behind.”

The train lurched forward. Through the windows, Ethan saw scenes flashing by—his past choices unfolding like film reels. The girl in the café he never spoke to. The audition he skipped. The letter to his father he never mailed.

The weight of it crushed him. He buried his face in his hands.

“Can I change any of it?” he asked hoarsely.

The conductor’s voice was firm. “No. But you can stop riding the same tracks.”

The words sank deep. Ethan looked at the versions of himself, their eyes haunted. Then he did something he’d never done—he stood.

“I can’t take you with me,” he whispered. “You’re part of me, but you don’t own me anymore.”

One by one, the other Ethans faded, until the compartment was empty. The train screeched to a halt. The conductor tipped his hat.

“Then your stop has come.”

Ethan stepped off onto a platform that glowed with morning light. The old station was gone; he stood in the real city again, his heart strangely light.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t a minute late. He was exactly where he needed to be.

Ethan stood on the platform, blinking against the brightness. The city was alive again: cars honking, footsteps rushing, the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting from a vendor’s cart.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, breathing in the air as though it were new. The slip of paper the white-haired woman had given him was still in his pocket. But when he pulled it out, the words had changed.

“You are not too late.”

His chest tightened. For years, he had been haunted by lateness, by doors closed a minute too soon. Now, for the first time, he felt time bend in his favor.

But a question lingered: if the train carried his regrets, what would happen if he ever missed it again?


---

That night, sleep came in fragments. He dreamed of tracks stretching into the dark, of whistles calling him back. He woke with the sensation of movement, as though the world itself were rolling forward beneath him.

By morning, he decided to test his luck. He returned to the same alley where the old station had been. Between the skyscrapers was nothing but brick walls and dumpsters. No clock tower. No coal smell. No woman with snow-colored hair.

Still, he checked every day for a week, then every Friday at midnight for a month. Nothing.

Life should have gone back to normal—but it didn’t.


---

At work, Ethan began showing up early instead of late. He took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. He returned calls right away, answering emails before they stacked up like bricks on his chest.

People noticed. His boss raised an eyebrow. His friends teased him. But Ethan didn’t mind. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone; he was trying not to miss himself.

One rainy evening, while walking home, he passed a café. Through the glass, he saw a woman sitting alone, reading a book. Something about her posture—the tilt of her head, the concentration on her face—pulled at him. He remembered the girl in the café from years ago, the one he never spoke to, the regret that had haunted him on the train.

His palms went sweaty. His instincts told him to keep walking. But then he remembered the conductor’s words: You can stop riding the same tracks.

Ethan pushed the door open.

The bell above the café chimed. The woman glanced up, meeting his eyes.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly. “Sorry to interrupt, but… I couldn’t help noticing your book. It’s one of my favorites.”

Her face broke into a smile. “Really? Most people have never heard of it.”

They began to talk. The rain fell harder outside, but inside, time felt gentler, like a train slowing at the right station.


---

Weeks turned into months. Ethan saw her again and again. Her name was Mara. She liked old films and hated elevators. She listened more than she spoke, which made Ethan feel both nervous and alive.

One evening, as they sat by the river, she asked, “Why do you always check your watch, even when you’re not in a hurry?”

Ethan hesitated. How could he explain that for most of his life, he had been running behind a minute, chained to regrets? How could he tell her about the midnight train, about the shadowed conductor and the versions of himself that had stared at him with disappointed eyes?

He only said, “Because I used to be late for everything. And I don’t want to be late for this.”

Mara smiled and squeezed his hand. “Then don’t be.”


---

One year later, on the eve of his thirty-sixth birthday, Ethan returned to the alley. He wasn’t sure why—maybe habit, maybe instinct.

This time, the station was there. The clock tower gleamed, its hands fixed at midnight. The air smelled of coal and rain.

Ethan’s heart pounded. He stepped inside.

The same woman with snow-colored hair sat in the booth. She looked at him as though she had been waiting all along.

“Another ticket?” she asked.

Ethan swallowed. “Do I need one?”

She tilted her head. “That depends. Do you still carry regrets?”

He thought of his father, of the last call he had missed. That wound would always ache. But he also thought of Mara’s laugh, of the mornings he woke early to watch the sunrise, of the days he had finally chosen to show up on time for his own life.

“No,” he said finally. “Not anymore.”

The woman’s smile was faint but warm. “Then your journey is finished.”

The station flickered like a lantern in the wind. The walls dissolved. And when Ethan blinked, he was standing alone in the alley again, the sound of traffic humming nearby.

But this time, there was no ache in his chest. No clock chasing him. Just the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat, moving forward.

Ethan walked home, not rushing, not late, simply on time.

And for the first time in his life, he realized the truth: he had never needed the train at all.