The Last Train to Miray

The train station of Miray hadn’t seen a real crowd in years. The walls were cracked, the benches splintered, and the ticket window covered in dust. Once, this place had been the heart of a small but thriving mining town. Now, it was only the heart of one old man who refused to let it die.

Every evening, Mr. Kofi Banda, the station master, stood by the empty platform wearing a neatly pressed uniform that no longer had a purpose. The trains had stopped coming three years ago, when the mines closed and the town’s people left to chase better lives elsewhere.

But Kofi stayed.

He said he had “unfinished business.”

Each night, at exactly 7:35 p.m., he would light the old brass lantern and face the tracks, waiting.

People whispered that he had lost someone long ago—a woman who had promised to return on the last train that ever left Miray. Some said she never made it back. Others said she changed her mind. Only Kofi knew the truth, and he kept it hidden like a relic from another life.

Thirty-five years ago, the station had been alive with music, laughter, and the rhythm of iron wheels. Among the crowd was Amina, the love of his youth—brilliant, ambitious, and full of dreams too large for Miray’s dusty streets.

“I’ll go to the city,” she had said, holding his hand tightly before boarding. “I’ll study medicine. When I come back, I’ll build a clinic here. Promise you’ll wait for me?”

He had laughed, too proud to show his fear. “Even if this station closes forever, I’ll still be here.”

But letters slowed, then stopped. Months turned into years, and the world moved on. Yet Kofi never left. He repaired the tracks, cleaned the benches, and waited for a train that no longer came.

On a quiet autumn night, when the wind carried the scent of rain and rust, Kofi heard something he hadn’t heard in decades—a whistle.

At first he thought it was his imagination, a trick of the wind. But then, the faint rumble of wheels echoed through the valley. He rushed outside, lantern in hand, and there it was: a single train, old and worn, slowing to a halt before him.

The doors creaked open, and a young woman stepped out—not Amina, but someone with the same eyes, the same quiet strength.

“Are you Mr. Banda?” she asked. “My mother spoke of you. She said if I ever came to Miray, I should find the man who kept his promise.”

Kofi’s lantern shook in his hand. “Amina…” he whispered, though the woman only smiled.

“She passed away last spring,” the young woman said softly. “But she wrote you this.”

She handed him a letter, yellowed and fragile from years of waiting.

‘My dearest Kofi,

If you’re still there, I hope the station lights still burn. I never stopped loving you, but life carried me away faster than any train. I wanted to return, to tell you that I built the clinic, that I kept my promise in my own way. If this letter finds you, know that my daughter carries my dream—and my heart.

Amina.’

Tears streamed down Kofi’s weathered cheeks. He looked up to find the young woman still standing there, waiting.

“Your mother was the light of this town,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s time Miray had one again.”

The young woman smiled. “Then let’s rebuild it, together.”

The wind howled again, but this time it carried warmth instead of sorrow. The last train to Miray had not come to take someone away—it had brought someone home.

And when Kofi lit the lantern that night, for the first time in decades, he wasn’t waiting anymore. He was beginning again.