he Final Departure Part Three – The Conductor

The Final Departure

Part Three – The Conductor

Julian sat rigid on the bench, knuckles white around the handle of the suitcase that wasn’t his. The voices of the lost passengers filled the station now—low murmurs, the occasional sob, the dragging thud of ruined bags over stone. None of them looked at him, but he felt swallowed by their presence.

A hand touched his shoulder.

He jerked around.

A man in a dark charcoal uniform stood over him, tall and lean, with a silver pocket watch dangling from a chain. His cap gleamed under the flickering lights. Unlike Clara, his smile wasn’t wide—it was thin, deliberate, knowing. His eyes were pale gray, but there was something ancient in them, like smoke rising from a furnace.

“Mr. Mercer,” the man said, bowing his head slightly. “It’s an honor. I’ve been expecting you.”

Julian scrambled to his feet. “Finally. Someone in charge. Listen, you need to let me out of here. There’s been some mistake.”

The man chuckled softly, clicking open his pocket watch. The hands inside spun wildly before freezing on midnight. He snapped it shut again.

“There are no mistakes, Mr. Mercer. There are only arrivals.” He extended a gloved hand. “You may call me Silas. I am the conductor of the Midnight Express.”

Julian didn’t take the hand. “Arrivals for what? Where is this?!”

Silas’s thin smile widened just enough to bare teeth too sharp to be human. “This is the terminal between what was and what will be. The tracks run one way. Always one way.”

Julian shook his head violently. “No. No, I’m not dead. I’m right here. I can feel this bench, I can smell this place—”

“Indeed,” Silas interrupted calmly. “Death feels no different from life until you’re already past the gates.”

The words struck Julian like a blow. His last memory surged back in fragments—the headlights, the screech of brakes, the shattering glass. He staggered back, clutching his chest.

Silas stepped closer, voice almost gentle now. “You carried quite a record in your years, Mr. Mercer. Lies, debts, ruined promises. But none of that concerns me. My duty is only to see that you reach your destination.”

Julian’s mouth worked soundlessly before he managed: “And where exactly is that?”

The conductor’s smile returned, colder this time. “You’ll understand soon. For now, all you need to do is board when called.”

Julian’s panic snapped into anger. He slammed the suitcase onto the bench and jabbed a finger at Silas. “I’m not going anywhere. You can’t make me! I didn’t agree to this. I still have a life out there—”

Silas’s pale eyes glittered. “The life you speak of is gone, crushed under twisted steel and fire. There is no bargaining, no pleading. The train waits for no one.”

He leaned closer, his breath like coal smoke. “And when it arrives, you will be on it.”

Before Julian could retort, the loudspeakers groaned again, their static rattling through the rafters.

“Attention, passengers. The Midnight Express is now approaching Platform Seven. All travelers, please prepare for immediate boarding.”

The sound of grinding wheels on distant tracks rolled through the station, deep and endless, like thunder beneath the earth.

Julian’s knees buckled. He pressed his palms to his ears, but the sound only grew louder, rattling his bones.

When he looked up again, Silas was already walking toward the gates, pocket watch swinging. Clara fell into step beside him, her crimson coat glowing like blood under the harsh lights.

And behind Julian, the passengers began to shuffle in unison, their heads lifting for the first time, eyes fixed on a destination none of them could see.

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