The Train to Nowhere

The platform was almost empty when I arrived.

Just a few scattered passengers, hunched against the cold, staring blankly into the dark. It was late—well past the last scheduled train—but the boards still glowed, flickering softly, as if they hadn’t been updated in years. My watch had stopped working sometime around midnight. Or maybe time had simply stopped mattering.

The train wasn’t supposed to come.

But it did.

Sleek. Silent. Its headlights cut through the night like twin ghosts. It rolled in with no fanfare, no conductor's voice, no announcement.

Just doors opening.

Inviting.

I hesitated.

There was no destination listed on the side. Just a number: N7H. The letters didn’t match any line I knew. I stepped closer.

No one else moved.

The other passengers kept staring ahead, like they were waiting for something else. Or maybe they already knew better.

But I got on.

Because I didn’t want to be here anymore.

Wherever “here” was.

And something in me already knew—I wouldn’t be coming back.

Inside, the train was quiet. Too quiet.

Fluorescent lights buzzed softly. The seats were clean but worn, like they'd seen lifetimes of travel. A faint scent of something old—ozone, dust, forgotten perfume—lingered in the air.

I chose a window seat. The glass reflected more than it revealed.

There were no signs. No maps. No emergency procedures. Just a single note taped to the wall across from me, handwritten in faded red ink:

“Stay seated. Don’t ask where you're going. Don’t talk to anyone who remembers their name.”

I stared at it for a long time.

The train jerked into motion.

And we were off.

There was no sound from the engine. No rhythmic clack of rails beneath us. Just a low hum that settled into my bones and stayed there.

Hours—or minutes—passed. Or maybe days. It was hard to tell. The lights never dimmed. My phone displayed only static. My watch’s hands spun aimlessly.

The world outside the window didn’t move the way it should. Lights flickered like fireflies in syrup. Buildings bent, then straightened. Trees grew and died in the blink of an eye. Once, I saw a copy of myself walking alongside the train, matching our pace, before vanishing into the shadows.

I tried to sleep.

But sleep didn’t come here.

Time was too thin.

I heard footsteps sometimes in the next car. Slow. Heavy. But when I peeked through the connecting door, it was empty. Yet the air smelled like rain, like something had just passed through.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t alone in the carriage.

A woman sat three rows ahead. Long coat. Hands folded in her lap. She hadn't been there before—or maybe she had, and I just hadn’t noticed. Her head turned slowly. Her eyes were dark and too wide.

“Do you remember your name?” she asked.

Her voice was kind, but wrong. Like an echo that didn’t belong to the room.

I remembered the note.

I didn’t answer.

She smiled, thin and tired.

“Good,” she said. “Then you might have a chance.”

Then she stood, walked to the far end of the car, and opened a door I hadn’t seen.

She stepped through it and disappeared.

I never saw her again.

Stops came and went.

Each time, the doors opened to strange places: a beach under two moons, a street of houses with no doors, a library where every book was blank. One stop looked like my childhood bedroom, perfectly preserved. I almost stepped out, but something in my chest clenched—tight and panicked.

Some passengers got on. Others stepped off.

They never looked back.

None of them spoke.

One man sat across from me for a while. He was humming something. A lullaby. I think I recognized it—something my mother used to sing when I was too sick to sleep. But his eyes were hollow. When I blinked, he was gone.

Not walked away. Not exited.

Just... vanished. Like steam.

I started forgetting things.

Small things at first—phone numbers, the color of my toothbrush, where I lived. Then bigger things.

The name of the city I left.

The reason I left.

My own face.

I checked the window and couldn’t see my reflection anymore.

I checked the mirror in the restroom.

It was cracked down the middle, but worse—it showed me sitting in my seat when I knew I was standing right there.

Sometimes, the reflection looked older than I was. Sometimes younger. Sometimes it smiled.

I stopped checking after that.

Eventually, I stood.

Walked to the conductor’s door.

Knocked.

No answer.

I opened it slowly.

No one was inside.

Just a single chair, a lever that moved on its own, and a mirror facing forward.

In the mirror, I saw the empty train.

I saw the tracks unraveling in real time.

I saw myself, years older, still riding.

Still searching for a stop that wouldn’t come.

I closed the door gently.

There was nowhere else to go.

I returned to my seat.

Outside, the sky had turned a deep violet. Stars blinked in and out, like thoughts on the edge of forgetting.

A young boy sat down beside me. He looked maybe ten.

“I think I was going to see my dad,” he said quietly.

I didn’t answer.

He looked up at me.

“Do you remember your name?”

I paused.

“No,” I said.

He nodded. “Then you’ll be here a while.”

And he turned to look out the window.

He didn’t stay long.

Eventually, like the others, he vanished.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here.

Time doesn’t work the same on this train.

But I’ve stopped waiting for the end.

There’s something peaceful about the in-between. Something forgiving. We all came here running from something.

Now we ride.

Not forward.

Not back.

Just... onward.

Because some journeys were never meant to end.

And not all tickets are round-trip.