3Am Train

Sure! Here's an extended version of the story **"The 3 AM Train"** in English, approximately 700 words long:

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**The 3 AM Train**

There was a town, quiet and small, called Lintasan—hidden between misty hills and forgotten railways. In this sleepy place stood an old train station, abandoned by time, yet oddly well-kept. The windows were always clean. The clocks, though stopped, were never dusty. And every morning, the cobblestone path leading to the platform looked freshly swept. People often wondered who bothered with such care.

That someone was Pak Salim, the station's only keeper, a man who never spoke much but always watched the tracks at night.

What made this station peculiar wasn’t just its caretaker. It was the legend: every night at exactly 3:00 a.m., people claimed to hear the whistle of a train that no one ever saw, followed by the low rumble of wheels on rusted rails and the wind that howled like a ghost.

Seventeen-year-old Nara had heard the stories since childhood. Most dismissed them as folktales meant to scare children into sleeping early. But Nara didn’t scare easily. She was a writer—or at least wanted to be. She thrived on mystery and chased after the unexplained. The idea of a ghost train intrigued her more than it frightened her.

So one night, while her parents slept, she packed her small notebook, a flashlight, and an old digital camera. She wrapped herself in a hoodie, tiptoed out of the house, and walked to the station, the moon lighting her path.

When she arrived, the station was empty, just as she expected. The benches were cold. The ticket booth was long closed. And the station clock stood frozen at 2:45 a.m.

Nara sat down and opened her notebook. The only sounds were the soft chirping of crickets and the faint rustle of wind.

Then it happened.

A sharp whistle cut through the silence, so real and close that she jumped. A sudden breeze brushed past her, colder than any she’d felt that night. Dust swirled. The ground vibrated.

And out of nowhere, the train appeared.

It wasn’t rusty or broken. It was elegant—old-fashioned, yes, with lanterns instead of modern lights, but pristine. As if it had just returned from a century ago. It slowed as it approached, coming to a smooth stop right in front of her.

The doors opened with a soft hiss.

No conductor. No passengers.

Just light.

And silence.

Nara hesitated only a moment. Her heart raced with curiosity. Slowly, she stepped in.

The train doors closed behind her. The whistle blew again, quieter this time, almost like a sigh. The train began to move, though she couldn't feel it. Outside the windows, everything turned to fog.

She walked through the first carriage, expecting dust and decay, but it was spotless. Velvet seats, polished floors, golden handles. It smelled of lavender and something older—like old books or distant memories.

In the second carriage, she saw a little boy sitting by the window, staring out. She blinked—and he was gone.

In the third, a woman in a long dress wrote a letter with trembling hands. When Nara got closer, the letter folded itself, caught fire, and vanished into the air.

Each carriage felt like a memory. A moment frozen in time. Some joyful, others melancholic.

But none of them felt threatening.

Then she heard a voice—not spoken aloud, but inside her mind. Soft, calm, ancient.

> “You are the first in many years to see us. You carry the ink of stories. That makes you worthy.”

Nara stopped walking.

> “This train carries memories—those forgotten, those lost, those never told. It travels between moments, collecting tales before they vanish forever. And now, it needs a writer.”

She saw now that the final carriage had no doors. Just a desk, a chair, and a leather-bound book glowing faintly.

> “You may stay and write. Or you may return and forget.”

She turned around. The door through which she entered was back—and open. Through it, she could see the platform, the cold bench, her world.

But behind her was the unknown.

The book waited. The train waited.

Nara looked at her notebook, then at the open doorway.

And she realized—either choice was a story worth telling.

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