The man with the suitcase

Phantom Metro -series introduction-

Every night, as the city sleeps, a silent train keeps moving beneath the streets of Rome.

On the shift of a lone night watchman, strange presences begin to emerge from the shadows.

No one sees that train. No one knows its schedule.

But when the doors slide open… every passenger carries a story from which there’s no return.

Welcome to Phantom Metro.

A series of self-contained tales, bound by one haunting question:

Who will be the next passenger?

When I received that email, I could hardly believe it. I hadn’t worked in nearly a year, and if it weren’t for the little money I still had left, I’d have been in serious trouble. The body of the email read:

After careful consideration, we’re pleased to inform you that you’ve been selected as a night watchman. You’ll begin your duties tomorrow at the Metro C Malatesta station.

My eyes fell instantly on the sender: “Unknown.” But I was too excited to care.

Everything happened so fast. The very next day, I was working the night shift at Malatesta Station on Metro Line C. Nobody wanted the night shift. I didn’t mind. When there’s no one waiting for you at home, your time is yours to spend.

The station was modern and silent. The floors gleamed under the pale neon lights, which pulsed with a rhythm all their own, as if unaware of the world above. Hardly anyone passed through, day or night. Not even the homeless it was, they said, "too new." The gray stairs leading underground were like an open throat in the city’s skin. The first time I descended them, a strange feeling settled over me. A slow, creeping unease, like a virus with no cure. I ignored it. I didn’t know I was making a mistake.

It all began with that man.

It was my third night on duty. I was starting to get used to the place. In the first two nights, I had studied the layout passages, shortcuts, little tricks to make time pass faster. I arrived early and chatted briefly with the colleague from the previous shift, who was eager to get home to his family.

Soon, the station emptied. Footsteps became fewer. Voices vanished. My shift had begun. My kingdom.

I descended the broad gray staircase for my first patrol. Few passengers remained. Most passed by me with a nod or a fleeting glance, then disappeared. The last train came at 11:35 PM. After that, silence.

Around midnight, I returned to the booth. Three monitors, my windows to the realm. I dozed off for about an hour. Then something caught my eye on the screen. A figure. A man, sitting on the bench. There shouldn’t have been anyone there. I nearly fell off my chair trying to stand. My heart began to pound.

I stepped into the corridor, ignoring the voice in my head telling me to stop. I rushed down the escalator, not waiting for it to carry me. The man was still there.

He wore a long black coat, elegant but worn. Between his legs sat a brown suitcase old, scuffed. His face was hidden under a brimmed hat, his gaze fixed on the ground. Even as I approached, he didn’t look up. I called out to him several times, leaning forward. For a moment, I wondered if he was deaf or dead.

I finally sat next to him. My heart thudded like a drum. A full minute passed in silence.

Then I tried again.

- Sir? The metro’s closed. Are you feeling alright?

Nothing.

He looked to be about sixty. I glanced at the suitcase. Not very big. Leather, no brand. Deep scars marred its surface. The zippers were rusted. It looked like it had belonged to him for a very, very long time.

- Sir, what’s in the suitcase?

This time, I saw something: a flicker, a twitch in his weathered cheek.

- I don’t know. He answered. And his voice pierced me.

- What do you mean? I asked, gently.

- Exactly what I said. One day I woke up, and it was beside my bed. It’s never left. It doesn’t open. No matter how hard I try, it won’t open.

Absurd. A man alone in a closed station with a suitcase that won’t open.

- You’re thinking I’m crazy, he said. But it’s true.

And then he began to tell me his story.

He’d been a gambler.

Met his wife in a Las Vegas casino. They married a year later and had a daughter. But his addiction slowly devoured him. He left his wife alone every night, lying about work dinners, meetings, overtime. Eventually, they sold their house to pay off debts. His daughter was just a year old.

His wife left him. He lost them both in a single night. He hid in a hostel with what little money he had left. The next morning, the suitcase was there.

He’d never been able to get rid of it.

He tried for years to reconnect with his daughter, but she’d learned everything. She hated him. Still, he tried letters, calls, anything.

Then, one night, something inside him snapped. He took a knife, broke into his ex-wife’s house, and murdered her and her new partner. Then he turned himself in. He thought that, at least during the trial, he’d get a chance to see his daughter again.

The detective laughed in his face.

Said the killer had already been caught.

They kicked him out of the station like a madman.

Since then, he had wandered. The suitcase always with him. It grew heavier with every passing year, as if each sin added weight. Not even justice wanted him.

He fled to Italy. Changed his name. Later, he learned his daughter had moved there too. Ironically, she took the metro every day to work.

He didn’t know which line. So he waited. Station after station. Every day. Hoping.

- I must go now.

I snapped out of it. It was like waking from a dream.

I was about to tell him no more trains would come until 5:30 AM when I heard it: a faint whistle. Then the wind the one that always came before a train.

A metro appeared out of the shadows. An old one, long out of service. It stopped in front of us and opened its doors.

- Goodnight, sir. If anyone ever wishes it, perhaps we’ll meet again.

He rose and dragged the suitcase behind him. He stepped into the empty carriage, lit only by flickering yellow lights. Strange shadows loomed inside…

The metro pulled away.

And I was alone.

Even in my soul.

note: only the English traslation was assisted by artificial intelligence.