The Woman on the Train Who Wasn’t There

I saw her every day on the 7:06 to Greystone.

Same seat. Second row from the back. Window side. Always reading a book — not a Kindle, mind you, but a real one. Hardcover. Worn edges. She turned each page like it meant something.

Her hair was black. Neat. Tied in a braid that hung over her shoulder like a quiet promise. She wore navy blue most days, sometimes grey. Always calm.

Always alone.

For weeks, I did nothing but watch.

Not in a creepy way. I wasn’t obsessed — not at first.

She was just… familiar. Like a half-remembered song from childhood. Or a face you dreamt about and forgot until it appears again, glowing in the static of your brain.

And then, one morning, she looked up.

Right at me.

And smiled.

After that, it was like we had an unspoken agreement. We never talked. But I’d nod when I passed, and she’d smile in return. Once, she offered the tiniest wave, fingers barely moving from the page she held.

Her book was always the same. Black cover. No title. I never saw the spine.

I asked around — the regular commuters.

“Hey, that woman near the back — you know her?”

Blank stares. Shakes of the head.

“You sure? She’s there every day.”

“Don’t know who you’re talking about, mate.”

I let it go. Maybe she just kept to herself. Maybe no one noticed her like I did.

But I noticed everything.

Like how she never got off. Not at Greystone. Not at any stop. The doors would open. People would come and go. But she stayed. Book in hand. Page turning.

I should have stopped thinking about her.

But curiosity has claws. And mine dug in deep.

One morning, I decided not to get off either.

I sat two rows ahead, pretending to scroll through emails, stealing glances behind.

She was there. Reading.

The train passed Greystone. Then Hollowbridge. Then Ash Point.

Stations blurred by, the glass fogging with morning chill.

She didn’t move.

The train reached the end of the line. Final stop. Everyone disembarked.

Everyone but her.

I hesitated, then stood up and walked back toward her.

She was gone.

No sign of her.

No book.

No braid.

Just an empty seat.

I blinked.

Had she slipped past me? No. I would have seen her.

I would have.

Wouldn’t I?

I asked the conductor.

“Was there a woman sitting back there? Dark hair. Blue coat. Book in hand?”

He looked at me strangely.

“Sir, that row’s been empty all morning.”

“But—”

“End of the line. You need to disembark.”

That night, I barely slept. My mind kept playing tricks — layering her image over every face I passed.

I searched online. Missing persons. News stories. Nothing.

The next morning, I boarded again.

7:06. Same car. Same row.

She was there.

Exactly where she’d always been.

Her eyes met mine — just for a second.

And her smile… it wasn’t warm this time.

It was sad.

Almost like an apology.

I didn’t approach her. Not that day.

But I began to watch her more closely.

The book she read never changed pages anymore.

Her braid never unraveled.

Her coat had a tear at the shoulder — and it never moved, even when the wind blew through the car.

She was a photograph in motion. Looping.

And then came the newspaper article. Printed and yellowed, folded beneath my doormat with no sender.

“Young Woman Dies in Train Accident — October 9, 1995.”

Underneath the headline: her face.

Same smile. Same hair. Same coat.

She’d died thirty years ago.

I took the next day off work.

I didn’t want to see her again.

Didn’t want to ride that train.

But I had to. I couldn’t leave it like that. I needed… something.

So the next morning, I boarded once more.

She was waiting.

And this time, I sat beside her.

The seat was cold. Ice-cold.

My breath fogged, even though the rest of the car was warm.

She turned her head, slowly.

Close up, her eyes were glassy.

Too perfect. Too still.

“I saw you,” I whispered. “The article. You died. Didn’t you?”

She blinked once. Slowly.

“I’m sorry,” I added, unsure why.

She looked down at her book. Her finger hovered above the same page.

Then, for the first time —

she turned it.

And vanished.

The train jolted.

The lights flickered.

Passengers looked at me. Some annoyed. Some confused.

“Who were you talking to?” someone asked.

“No one,” I replied. “Just… thinking out loud.”

I still take the 7:06.

Her seat’s always empty now.

But sometimes — on foggy mornings, when the tracks hiss and the wind sounds like it’s whispering names —

I see a shape in the window reflection.

Not quite there.

Not quite gone.

A braid.

A book.

A smile.

And I wonder if she finally moved on…

Or if she’s just waiting

for someone else

to follow.