The Last Train to Tanjong Merah



The Last Train to Tanjong Merah

The platform at Bukit Padang station was nearly deserted, save for a few weary souls waiting in silence under the flickering fluorescent lights. A soft mist curled in from the jungle beyond, ghosting across the tracks like the breath of something ancient.

No one spoke. No one looked at each other. They all seemed to know, in their own way, that this wasn’t an ordinary train they were waiting for.

Amiya clutched her satchel to her chest. Inside were only the essentials—some food, an old map, a black-and-white photo of her grandfather in uniform, and the letter. It had arrived a week ago, unsigned and written in a strange, almost childlike hand: Take the last train to Tanjong Merah. All will be explained. –A friend.

She hadn’t thought of Tanjong Merah in years. As a child, she’d heard whispered stories from her grandmother—about a cursed town swallowed by the jungle, about voices in the night and people who vanished without a trace. She thought it was all myth, something her grandmother made up to keep her from wandering too far.

But her grandfather had disappeared too. Forty years ago, while working as a railway inspector along the old jungle line. He’d boarded the last southbound train and never returned.

A horn wailed in the distance.

The train emerged from the dark like a memory returning too late—its windows dim, its carriages weather-worn but gleaming with dew. It screeched to a halt, and the doors opened with a reluctant hiss. No conductor. No announcements.

Amiya stepped in.

Inside, the train was still and cold. Rows of velvet seats stretched into the gloom, and she could hear the faint sound of a radio playing somewhere far away, its signal breaking. The other passengers boarded quietly, each finding a seat without question. Amiya sat near the middle, placing her satchel on her lap, gripping the old photograph.

The train moved.

Outside, the jungle rushed by in blurred green. The towns and stations became fewer, then vanished altogether. The train moved deeper into places no longer marked on maps. The air grew heavier, and Amiya could swear she heard voices echoing down the corridors—whispers, laughter, then silence.

She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, the train had stopped.

The sign outside was rusted and barely legible, but it read clearly enough: Tanjong Merah.

No one else moved.

Amiya stepped off into thick fog. The platform was cracked and half-swallowed by vines. A faint path led into the jungle, and beyond that, she could see the outline of buildings—hollowed out and broken, their roofs sagging under the weight of time.

But there was something else. Music. A soft hum, like an old record spinning somewhere far off. She followed it.

As she passed through the ruins, the air grew warmer. Lamps flickered on by themselves. A small shopfront lit up, revealing a smiling woman who waved as if expecting her. Amiya’s breath caught in her throat.

“Welcome back,” the woman said in a voice too familiar.

“I’ve never been here,” Amiya replied.

“But he has,” the woman said, and handed her a folded note.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

Amiya, if you are reading this, then you have found the truth. Tanjong Merah is not a place—it’s a memory. A tether between what was lost and what still seeks to be found. I had to come here to protect what remained. I’m sorry I never came back. But know this: I was never lost. I found peace here. Maybe you will too.

She turned the note over. A map was drawn on the back, leading toward an old stationhouse at the edge of town.

Inside, the walls were lined with old photographs. And in the center, in a cracked leather chair, sat her grandfather—older, quieter, but very much alive.

They didn’t speak at first. They didn’t need to.

“I waited,” he finally said, “for someone who believed.”

Amiya sat beside him. And the train, the one that brought her here, had already gone.

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Would you like a version with a specific genre twist—like horror, mystery, or magical realism?