The Train That Forgot to Stop

The platform smelled of rain and regret.

Marc stood at the edge, his shoes just behind the yellow line, watching the rails glisten like silver veins in the dark. Above him, the station’s ancient clock ticked with a cruel precision — every second a reminder that he was still here, still waiting, still not brave enough to step away.

It had been two years since he’d taken the 6:17 PM train. Two years since he’d left the office with its sterile white lights and the faint smell of printer toner, believing that life would bloom somewhere else — if only he ran fast enough.

But when Elise walked out of their apartment carrying the last of the green plants and the warmth of the walls, he learned the truth: leaving didn’t always mean arriving somewhere better.

The 6:17 roared in the distance now, an echo that grew sharper, louder, until the air vibrated around him. The headlights cut through the drizzle like two accusing eyes.

Marc adjusted his coat collar, fingers brushing the scarf she once knitted for him — a faint scent of lavender still clung to the wool.

The train didn’t care about him. It never did.

It screeched into the station, indifferent, and for a moment he thought it wouldn’t stop at all — that it would thunder past, dragging his memories behind it like cans tied to a wedding car.

But it did stop.

Barely.

Doors hissed open. Warm air spilled out, smelling faintly of coffee and wet newspaper.

He stepped inside.

The car was nearly empty. A young couple whispered in the corner, their hands a tangled mess of fingers. Across from them sat an elderly woman knitting something yellow and soft, her hands moving with mechanical grace.

Marc sank into a window seat, his reflection staring back at him through the glass. He barely recognized himself — his hair longer, shoulders stooped, eyes carrying more shadows than light.

The train shuddered and began to move.

At first, it was a gentle crawl, but soon the landscape outside became a blur — wet streets, dim houses, glowing signs smeared together like oil on water.

He closed his eyes and thought of Elise.

The way she would hum when she watered the plants. The way she’d rest her chin on his shoulder when she cooked. The way she left a note — not even a goodbye, just “Don’t wait up.”

But he had waited.

And now he was here.

Somewhere between the place he left and the place he’d never found.

The train moved faster. Too fast. The scenery outside was no longer familiar. Forests turned into deserts, deserts into mountains. Cities flickered and dissolved like dreams.

He opened his eyes and realized the young couple was gone. The old woman, too.

The car was empty.

And still the train did not stop.

Marc stood, gripping the metal pole as the car rattled violently. He stumbled down the aisle, peering into the next car — empty. And the next — empty.

It was just him now.

He pounded on the conductor’s door. No answer.

The world outside no longer looked real — it was streaks of color, bleeding into each other, like the pages of a wet painting.

He sat back down, breath shallow, hands trembling.

Maybe this was the way it was supposed to be.

Maybe this train was meant for people like him — people who never knew when to get off.

People who believed they could outrun the past, only to find themselves trapped inside it, hurtling forward, faster and faster.

He pressed his forehead to the window.

For a moment, he thought he saw her — standing on a platform somewhere far away, her scarf billowing in the wind, her hands cupped around her mouth as if calling his name.

But the train didn’t stop.

Not for her.

Not for anyone.

Hours — or maybe years — passed. Time melted away, irrelevant now.

At some point, Marc realized he’d stopped hoping for a destination.

He leaned back in his seat, eyes half-closed, letting the rhythm of the wheels lull him into a strange calm.

Maybe moving forward didn’t always mean arriving somewhere.

Maybe it simply meant letting go of everything you couldn’t carry anymore — the mistakes, the memories, the love you didn’t know how to keep.

And so, when the train finally plunged into darkness — when the rails dissolved into nothing — Marc let himself dissolve with it.

The scarf slipped from his neck and pooled on the floor.

The train kept going.

And he no longer cared where.