The Last Train Home

The Last Train Home

By Abdul Muhammad

The station was nearly empty when I arrived.

A single overhead light buzzed and flickered as I stood on the platform, clutching my backpack like it was a lifeline. The last train of the night shrieked in the distance, echoing against the concrete walls.

I told myself I was fine, that I had done this commute a hundred times before. But something about tonight felt… different.

The train rolled in with a long, tired sigh.

The doors slid open.

And that’s when I saw them.

The first passenger was sitting directly across from the door, reading a book with the same chewed-up corner I remembered.

It was my childhood best friend, Arif.

He hadn’t changed a bit—still that messy hair, still that chipped front tooth from when we fell off our bikes together.

But Arif moved away when I was twelve. I hadn’t seen him since.

I froze, halfway into the carriage, staring.

He didn’t look up.

I slid into a seat near the back, my heart hammering.

The train jolted forward, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim yellow light, I realized the other passengers were all familiar too.

There was my high school teacher, Ms. Karim, tapping her foot like she used to during exams.

There was Sana, the neighbor’s daughter who used to sneak cookies through my window.

There was the boy I sat next to in chemistry, the one who always smelled faintly of pencil shavings.

Every single person was someone I knew.

Or had known.

The train was too quiet.

No one spoke. No one made eye contact. They sat in perfect stillness, as though waiting for something.

I stared out the window, but the darkness outside showed only my own reflection—pale, wide-eyed.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

A message from an unknown number:

DON’T MISS YOUR STOP.

My mouth went dry.

I tried to text back, but the screen glitched, filling with random letters before going black.

The train rattled on.

Then, as we approached the next station, Arif looked up.

His eyes met mine.

I felt my stomach drop.

He smiled.

Not a friendly smile — a knowing smile. Like he had been waiting for me all this time.

He stood.

The train slowed.

And he stepped off without a word.

At the next stop, Sana rose too, her face serene, her steps measured.

One by one, with each station, the passengers I recognized disappeared.

By the time we reached the eighth stop, only one other person remained: my father.

My father, who had died three years ago.

He was sitting at the far end of the carriage, hands folded on his knees.

When he looked at me, I felt the air leave my lungs.

“Baba?” My voice cracked.

He nodded once, slow and calm, as though this was the most natural thing in the world.

I wanted to run to him, but my feet wouldn’t move.

The train slowed again.

He stood, but before stepping off, he paused by my seat.

“You’re almost home,” he said quietly.

Then he was gone.

I was the last passenger now.

The train car felt colder.

I glanced at the empty seats, my father’s words echoing in my head.

Almost home.

The final station came into view — a small, deserted platform I had never seen before.

The train hissed to a stop.

The doors slid open.

For a moment, I hesitated.

Then I stepped off.

The platform was bathed in a strange, silver light, though there were no lamps. The air smelled of rain and something electric.

The train doors shut behind me.

When I turned back, the carriage was empty.

Not just empty—dark, hollow, as though it had never been there at all.

A low hum filled the air.

Ahead, a narrow path wound through a cluster of glowing trees.

I should have been afraid.

But I wasn’t.

Because for the first time in years, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my backpack, and followed the path.

The last train pulled away behind me, disappearing into the night.

I never saw it again.

But I think about that journey often—about the faces that appeared one last time, about the words my father left me with.

And I wonder if maybe the train wasn’t taking me home in the ordinary sense.

Maybe it was reminding me that home isn’t a place you arrive at.

It’s the people who stay with you, even after they’re gone.