The Night Train to Elsewhere"

The platform was nearly silent, save for the soft hum of distant tracks and the occasional hiss of steam.

Isla stood beneath the dim yellow glow of the station lamp, her suitcase beside her and a train ticket in her coat pocket. No departure time. No destination. Only a name written in bold, fading ink:

"Elsewhere."

She didn’t remember buying the ticket. It had arrived in her mailbox three nights ago, wrapped in wax paper and sealed with a red stamp she didn’t recognize. She hadn’t planned to come here. But something about that word—Elsewhere—pulled her.

She had nothing left behind to lose, anyway.

Her phone had died hours ago, and no one had texted since yesterday. The hospital had called that morning: her grandmother, who had raised her, passed away peacefully in her sleep. Isla hadn’t cried. The tears had dried up long ago, somewhere between her final argument with her fiancé and the eviction notice on her door.

So when she found the ticket, it felt like an invitation. Or maybe a test.

A whistle cut through the silence. The train emerged from the mist like a memory being recalled—flickering, ghostlike, then real. It wasn’t like any train she’d seen before. It was sleek, metallic, and matte-black, with a glowing white insignia etched into its side: a crescent moon pierced by an arrow.

The doors opened without a sound.

No conductor.

No announcement.

Only the silence of choice.

Isla stepped in.

Inside, the train hummed with warmth and possibility. The seats were velvet green, glowing faintly in the dim light. There were no other passengers—only her reflection, staring back from the opposite window.

As the train pulled away, the world outside blurred—not with speed, but with unreality. The buildings dissolved. The tracks disappeared. Trees stretched into tall, unfamiliar silhouettes. The stars above twisted into constellations she didn’t recognize.

She closed her eyes. Sleep took her like a tide.

She awoke in a different place—still inside the train, but the air felt… softer. As though the cabin had become unstuck in time.

A woman sat across from her. She wore an old-fashioned dress and held a worn leather book. Her face shimmered, like it didn’t belong to one person alone.

“Isla, do you remember me?” the woman asked, voice like echoing wind.

“No,” Isla replied truthfully.

“You did, once,” the woman said. “Before the forgetting.”

Isla blinked. “Where is this train going?”

The woman smiled. “That depends on where you choose to arrive.”

She offered Isla the book. The cover read: The Life She Almost Lived.

Inside, page after page was filled with memories—not ones Isla remembered, but ones that felt right. A childhood where her mother didn’t leave. A wedding that didn’t fall apart. A life where love didn’t walk out the door but stayed, steady and warm.

Tears stung her eyes.

“This is a dream,” Isla whispered.

The woman shook her head. “No. This is Elsewhere.”

The train stopped.

Outside the window was a beach Isla knew from childhood, but greener, more vibrant, as if it had been painted by joy itself. A figure stood in the sand: her grandmother, barefoot, smiling, arms wide open.

“Do I get to stay?” Isla asked, her voice cracking.

“If you choose to,” the woman said. “You can go back, or begin again. Elsewhere is only a door. What’s beyond it… is yours to decide.”

Isla stood and slowly, the book still in her hands. She stepped off the train.

Behind her, the doors closed. The train disappeared into the mist.

And Isla walked into the waves of a new beginning.