The Man Who Wasn't There

I don’t remember falling asleep.

The train had been crawling through heavy fog for what felt like hours. I was heading home from a business trip, my eyes burning from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Outside, the world had turned to a blur of grey. I blinked once. Then again.

When I opened my eyes, the train wasn’t moving.

I looked around. No announcements. No conductor. Just the thick silence of an unscheduled stop. The sign outside the window was half-covered in ivy, but the part I could read said: “R—TWICK.”

Rutwick? I’d never heard of it.

My compartment was empty, so I grabbed my bag and stepped into the corridor. The lights were flickering. The train’s hum was gone.

I stepped off the train.

The air was thick—cold, damp, and smelling faintly of copper. Like old blood.

The station was small and rotting. Cracked boards, vines creeping up the walls, shattered glass underfoot. No people. No workers. Just a single man standing at the far end of the platform. He was facing away, dressed in a long black coat that fluttered slightly in the breeze.

“Excuse me?” I called out. “Is this Rutwick?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just…stood.

I walked toward him, each step crunching glass. My fingers trembled on the strap of my bag. He still didn’t turn around.

“Sir?”

When I was less than six feet away, he moved.

Not turned—moved. One moment still, the next...gone. Like static on a screen.

I gasped and stumbled back. There was no trace of him.

My breath clouded in the cold air. This couldn’t be real. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe I was still on the train. Maybe—

The train let out a screeching groan. I spun around.

It was pulling away without me.

I ran.

I shouted.

I waved.

But the doors were sealed, and the windows were dark.

Within seconds, it vanished into the mist.

I stood alone on the platform of a dead station in a town that didn’t exist.

---

I wandered through Rutwick for what felt like hours.

The houses were crooked and old, like they'd been built a century ago and never maintained. The streetlights flickered even though it was daytime. No cars. No people.

No animals, either.

Just silence—and that coppery smell that lingered like a warning.

Then I saw it: a small library. The only building that didn’t look completely abandoned. Light glowed faintly behind the curtains.

I approached the door and knocked.

Nothing.

I tried the handle. It opened.

Inside, it was warm. A fire burned in the fireplace. Books lined the walls—dusty, but intact.

And at the front desk sat the man in the black coat.

This time, he was facing me.

He looked exactly like me.

Same face. Same eyes. Same scar on my right hand.

He smiled. “You made it.”

“What… is this?” I whispered.

He stood. Walked toward me.

“I've been waiting,” he said. “I came through this town on a train too. Years ago. I was just like you. Lost. Tired. Curious.”

I backed away.

“But once you leave the train,” he said, “you stay. That’s the rule.”

“No. No, I’m leaving. I don’t belong here.”

He tilted his head.

“You do now. And someone has to keep the town warm.”

The fire crackled behind him.

I turned to run—but the door was gone. Replaced by solid wall.

“Let me go!” I shouted.

He sighed, almost kindly. “You’re not the first. But you'll be the last.”

He raised a hand.

The shadows from the corners of the room began to move.

They slithered across the walls like smoke given purpose.

They reached me.

And the room went black.

---

I woke up behind the desk.

The fire burned softly.

The books were neatly stacked.

Outside, the train has arrived.

A man steps off.

He looks confused.

He looks like me.

I smile.

And I say, “You made it.”

---