The Enigma Behind the Whistle's Reverberation

You wake up alone on the train, and outside, the trees drift by slowly.

You sit in the front row by the window, facing forward. When you turn around, all the seats stretching to the door are empty, and dim lights flicker in the absent eyes of those who aren't there. Inside the train, it's pitch black, and hours have passed without seeing a conductor. The only source of light comes from a perfect full moon in the clear, cloudless sky.

The train is cold, but you don't shiver. The cold comes from the absence of things; there are no whispers, no rustling of clothing. There are no coughs, no laughter to warm the air. No faint sounds to pose unanswered questions to parents.

The person sitting beside you breathes slowly and heavily. In and out.

You don't know who he is. In the silent train, there is only the sound of his breathing. As the train wheels glide along the tracks, there's no creaking; the tracks must be there because this is a train, and trains run on tracks. You turn to look at the man; his clothes make a faint rustling sound, breaking the continuous silence until the sound fades, swallowed by the surrounding shadows.

His face is in shadow, and you can't see it. His breathing is slow and steady, but his chest neither rises nor falls. He remains motionless. You can't make out the details of his clothing. Perhaps a jacket, a shirt, a sweater. The darkness doesn't provide answers.

Breaking the hollow silence once more, you turn your face toward the window, wondering about the train's attendants. You must have seen them. Of course, you must have boarded the train at some point. They must have checked... surely...

Outside, the night rushes past, but the train seems still. It lacks the swaying and bumping of a moving train. So why are the trees moving so quickly? It's deep autumn, and the bare branches, devoid of leaves, snow, or birds, reach into the cloudless sky like twisted skeletal fingers.

Though you can't hear it, the branches sway in the wind, and as the train rushes past, the wind almost forms blurry shadows in the darkness. Even though you can't feel it, the train must be moving; there's a sensation that you're not in the same place anymore. But where is that place? Where are you going?

As you gaze at the tangled forest of skeletal trees, your eyes tense. The attendants haven't checked your train for several hours, if they were ever here. Did they exist? Of course, they must have, because you're on a train, that's how it works. All trains have attendants. But where is the train going? You have a ticket in your hand, a ticket that must have been there all along, or where else would it be? It couldn't be anywhere else, right?

There are tiny holes in the ticket, which you can feel as you run your finger over its smooth surface. In the corners, there's an intricate pattern of holes, like those made by a hole puncher. Under the moonlight, unobscured by clouds, it's difficult to read the text that must be on the ticket. Because all tickets have text.

This ticket will answer all your questions (except one). But you can't see anything; under the faint moonlight, you can't make out the text that must be there.

You look out the window, futilely trying to see through the dense forest, curious about the attendants. You must have seen them because your ticket has holes, surely punched by them, and the train is heading somewhere, so you must have boarded.

The lights in the car slowly dim, the absence of something making up the light and dark. If there were conversations, screens, celebrities... but there are none of those things. The seats on the other side of the aisle gradually disappear into the darkness but remain distinctly visible, like ships sinking into the darkness after a storm.

The person beside you remains motionless, as though he's not there, but he must be, because you can see him. The attendants must still be there, but you don't remember anymore. Maybe you fell asleep? You woke up, so you must have fallen asleep. But if so, where are you going, and where did you come from?

You can't see the faces of those around you; are they wearing hats or masks? When you turn back and once again survey the car, the silence is broken and reassembled, but the car is empty except for you. Absent-minded eyes flicker toward you from the darkness, reflecting non-illuminated light.

The attendant hasn't appeared for hours, if they were ever here. What does the man's face look like? You've seen it; you must have seen it. When did you start riding this train? The moon remains unchanged, and the skeletal tree shadows race by. You must be moving because there's a sense, a feeling that you're no longer in your original place. But where is that place? Where are you going?

As you stare at the entangled forest of skeletal trees, your eyes tense. The attendant hasn't checked on you for hours, if they were ever here. Did they exist? Of course, they must have, because you're on a train; that's how it works. All trains have attendants. Where is the train going? You hold a ticket in your hand, a ticket that must have always been there, or where else would it be? It couldn't be anywhere else, right?

There are small holes in the ticket that you can feel as you slide your finger across its smooth surface. In the corners, there's a complex series of holes, like those left by a hole puncher. Under the moonlight, unobscured by clouds, it's challenging to read the text that must be present on the ticket. Because all tickets have text.

This ticket will answer all your questions (except one). But you can't see anything; under the faint moonlight, you can't decipher the text that must exist.

You look out the window, futilely trying to see through the dense forest, curious about the attendants. You must have seen them; after all, your ticket has holes, certainly punched by them, and the train is heading somewhere, so you must have boarded.

The outside world rushes by in the deep autumn night, but the train appears motionless. It lacks the typical sway and jostling of a moving train. So why are the trees moving so rapidly? It's deep autumn, and the bare branches, without leaves, snow, or birds, reach out into the cloudless sky like twisted skeletal fingers.

Though you can't hear it, the branches sway in the wind, and as the train rushes past, the wind almost forms blurry shadows in the darkness. Even though you can't feel it, the train must be moving; there's a sensation that you're not in the same place anymore. But where is that place? Where are you going?

As you stare at the tangled forest of skeletal trees, your eyes tense. The attendants haven't checked your train for several hours, if they were ever here. Did they exist? Of course, they must have because you're on a train, that's how it works. All trains have attendants. But where is the train going? You have a

ticket in your hand, a ticket that must have been there all along, or where else would it be? It couldn't be anywhere else, right?

There are tiny holes in the ticket, which you can feel as you run your finger over its smooth surface. In the corners, there's an intricate pattern of holes, like those made by a hole puncher. Under the moonlight, unobscured by clouds, it's difficult to read the text that must be on the ticket. Because all tickets have text.

This ticket will answer all your questions (except one). But you can't see anything; under the faint moonlight, you can't make out the text that must be there.

You look out the window, futilely trying to see through the dense forest, curious about the attendants. You must have seen them because your ticket has holes, surely punched by them, and the train is heading somewhere, so you must have boarded.

The lights in the car slowly dim, the absence of something making up the light and dark. If there were conversations, screens, celebrities... but there are none of those things. The seats on the other side of the aisle gradually disappear into the darkness but remain distinctly visible, like ships sinking into the darkness after a storm.

The person beside you remains motionless, as though he's not there, but he must be, because you can see him. The attendants must still be there, but you don't remember anymore. Maybe you fell asleep? You woke up, so you must have fallen asleep. But if so, where are you going, and where did you come from?

You can't see the faces of those around you; are they wearing hats or masks? When you turn back and once again survey the car, the silence is broken and reassembled, but the car is empty except for you. Absent-minded eyes flicker toward you from the darkness, reflecting non-illuminated light.

A sharp whistle pierces the hollow silence.

You wake up alone on the train, and outside, the trees drift by slowly.

You sit in the front row by the window, facing forward...