The Final Departure Part Two – The Passengers

Julian wasn’t sure how long he sat there, staring at the flickering board. It could’ve been ten minutes. It could’ve been hours. The clock on the wall read exactly 11:00 p.m. and didn’t move.

Every attempt to check his phone failed. The screen stayed black no matter how many times he tapped it.

He leaned back, trying to steady his breath. This is a dream, he told himself. A bad dream. You’ll wake up soon.

But the sound of shuffling broke the silence.

From the far shadows of the hall, figures emerged. Men and women, their shoulders slumped, dressed in clothing from different decades. One man wore a fedora and trench coat yellowed with age. A young woman dragged herself forward in a torn denim jacket, mascara streaked down her face. A middle-aged businessman in a gray suit pulled a rolling suitcase that had no wheels, the leather scraping loudly across the tiles.

They drifted without speaking, eyes downcast, bumping into each other but never acknowledging the collisions. Once, Julian saw two of them cross paths and—his stomach dropped—they passed through one another like smoke.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, lurching to his feet. “Hey! Can anyone hear me?”

No response. The passengers kept moving, shuffling toward nowhere, their luggage spilling open with shirts, shoes, papers, photographs. Things from lives that felt unfinished.

Julian backed against a column, his pulse hammering. These weren’t commuters. They were… what?

“Mr. Mercer?”

The voice came from right behind him.

Julian spun. A woman stood at his shoulder, tall and slender, wearing a crimson coat that brushed her ankles. Her auburn hair was pinned neatly under a cap, and her smile was too perfect, too polished, like a mannequin that had learned how to move.

She extended a gloved hand. “My name is Clara. I’ll be your attendant this evening.”

Julian shook his head, stepping back. “I don’t need an attendant. I need to get out of here. Where are the exits?”

Clara’s smile never faltered, though her eyes gleamed with something sharp. “There are no exits, sir. Only boarding.”

“You don’t understand,” Julian snapped. Panic clawed at his throat. “I never came here. I didn’t buy a ticket. I don’t even like trains! Just tell me where the door is and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Clara tilted her head sympathetically, though the gesture felt rehearsed. “Mr. Mercer, you’ve already checked in. The journey has been scheduled. Whether you recall purchasing it or not makes no difference. What matters is that you’re here.”

Julian’s mouth went dry. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You will,” Clara said softly. “When the clock strikes twelve, you will.”

She gestured, and Julian startled to see a leather suitcase standing at his feet. His initials—J.M.—were stamped into its side. He swore it hadn’t been there seconds ago.

He knelt, opening it with shaking hands. Inside were objects that made his stomach twist: his father’s old pocket watch, a photograph of his ex-wife smiling on a summer pier, the flask he’d drained the night of the crash.

Julian slammed the lid shut, heart hammering. “This is insane. You can’t just—”

The station’s loudspeakers crackled, drowning his words.

“Attention, passengers. Midnight Express, Platform Seven, will begin boarding in one hour. Please have your tickets ready.”

The announcement echoed like a funeral bell.

Clara’s smile widened. “You see? Everything is in order.”

Julian’s knees nearly buckled as he stumbled back toward the benches, ticket burning in his pocket. Around him, the pale passengers gathered, silent, their eyes hollow, their hands gripping ruined luggage. Not one of them looked up at the announcement.

And yet Julian felt it: every single one of them was waiting.

Waiting for the train.

Click here For Nest Part .......

.