The Last Train

The Last Train

The platform hummed with restless energy. The dull glow of overhead lights flickered, casting elongated shadows that stretched like ghosts of memories long buried. Passengers shuffled about, their voices merging into a symphony of impatience and longing. The scent of damp metal and old newspapers filled the air, mingling with the distant aroma of street food carried in by the wind.

Arya stood still amid the movement, her grip tightening around a creased photograph. It had been folded and unfolded countless times over the years—tucked inside books, hidden in drawers, pressed against her chest on sleepless nights. A relic of the past, proof of a time that felt more like a dream.

The train would arrive in two minutes.

Her heartbeat quickened as her gaze flickered across the crowd. Was he here? Would she recognize him? Would he recognize her?

Twenty years.

Two decades since she’d seen him.

The boy who once chased fireflies with her, who whispered promises under starlit skies. If you ever feel lost, just follow the fireflies. They always find their way back.

But life had pulled them apart. A sudden move. Letters lost in transit. Silent years where the echoes of their laughter grew faint, barely a whisper. She had told herself to forget, forced herself to believe that some things were meant to fade. But then—

The message.

A note slipped between the pages of a book in the library. Platform 7. Last train. If you still believe in fireflies.

No name. Just the words that only he would know.

She had read it a hundred times, memorized the curve of each letter, the way ink smudged on paper. Hope had bloomed in her chest, delicate yet relentless.

Now, she stood on the edge of certainty and doubt.

The whistle shrieked, slicing through the air like an urgent plea. The train rumbled in, its metal wheels grinding against the tracks. Steam billowed, curling into the night sky. The doors slid open, releasing passengers into the tide of movement.

Her heart thundered.

Then—she saw him.

Time had painted him differently. His hair, once ink-black, bore silver at the edges. Fine lines framed his eyes, but they remained unchanged—warm, deep, familiar. A lifetime had passed between them, yet the essence of him was still there.

She stepped forward, uncertain.

He smiled.

From his coat pocket, he pulled out a small glass jar. Inside, a single firefly pulsed gently, its golden light blinking in steady rhythm.

She inhaled sharply.

“You found me,” she whispered.

His smile softened, his fingers tightening around the jar as if anchoring himself to the moment. “I never stopped looking.”

The last train pulled away behind them, but neither of them needed it anymore.

The silence between them was heavy, thick with unspoken words and forgotten years. People pushed past, weaving through the space they occupied, but Arya hardly noticed. Her world had shrunk to this moment—to the way his eyes searched her face, as if trying to reconcile the past with the present.

“How did you—” She stopped, shaking her head. “How did you find me?”

“I never really lost you.” His voice was quieter now, but just as certain. “I tried to write. The letters—I don’t know what happened. Maybe they never reached you. Maybe they got lost like everything else.”

Arya swallowed hard. “I wrote too. I thought maybe—” She laughed softly, shaking her head. “I thought you forgot.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “Never.”

A beat passed, and then he opened the jar. The firefly hovered in the air between them, its glow flickering like Morse code. Arya watched it dance, a golden memory brought to life.

“Do you remember that summer?” he asked.

She smiled. “Every night, we chased fireflies. You said they carried wishes.”

“And you always wished on them.”

“Only one wish, always the same.”

His gaze held hers. “That we’d find our way back.”

Her breath hitched.

The firefly drifted upwards, carried by the wind. Its glow faded, swallowed by the vastness of the night sky.

“I thought you moved on,” she admitted. “I thought maybe—maybe you didn’t want to remember.”

He shook his head. “You were never just a memory.”

A train whistle echoed through the night, but it was distant, unimportant.

“What now?” she asked.

He looked at her for a long time before speaking.

“We could go for a walk,” he suggested. “Maybe catch some fireflies.”

Arya laughed, shaking her head. “Some things never change.”

“And some things do,” he added. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t find our way back.”

The words hung between them, delicate and full of meaning.

She looked down at the photograph in her hand. The faces were younger, untouched by time, by loss, by distance. But the promise remained.

Arya slipped the picture back into her pocket.

And then, she took his hand.

Together, they stepped off the platform—toward whatever came next.