The Last Train

The city never truly slept only pretended to. Even past midnight, the old central station breathed with the rhythm of fluorescent lights and the echo of footsteps that didn’t belong to anyone.

**Nora** sat on a bench near Platform 9, her suitcase between her legs, cigarette burning low. The clock above the ticket counter was broken stuck forever at 12:17.

She wasn’t waiting for a train. She was waiting for him.

**Julian** always came late, always with that same careless grin and smell of whiskey. Tonight, though, he looked different suit wrinkled, tie loose, eyes clouded with something that looked too much like regret.

“You came,” he said, voice rough.

“I shouldn’t have,” she replied.

He sat beside her, their reflections flickering in the glass. Outside, the rain hit the platform in sharp rhythms. The speakers crackled, announcing a train that wasn’t coming.

“You said you’d leave with me,” Nora whispered.

“I did.”

“Then why do you look like a man already gone?”

Julian smiled weakly. “Because I am.”

He told her about the money. The deal gone wrong. The people who wanted him silenced.

“I have one hour,” he said. “The last train leaves at one. After that… I don’t exist.”

She laughed bitterly. “You and your metaphors.”

“This one’s real, Nora.” He looked at her like he wanted to memorize her face. “Come with me.”

She shook her head. “You said that before. Three times. Each time, you disappeared for weeks. And I waited.”

“This time’s different.”

“Every time is.”

A gust of wind rolled through the station, carrying the scent of metal and rain. The city outside was still alive horns, sirens, the hum of somewhere else.

Julian reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope. “Half a ticket,” he said. “Yours.”

She frowned. “Half?”

“The other half’s with me. They only work together.”

He placed it on her lap, his fingers brushing hers. Warm. Real.

“Midnight to nowhere,” she murmured, reading the fading ink. “Sounds romantic.”

“It’s safer than staying.”

He stood up, checked his watch. “Platform 11. Five minutes.”

She stayed seated, eyes on the cigarette burning itself out. “You think you can outrun the city?”

“I have to try.”

When she looked up, he was already walking away.

The loudspeaker groaned again. “*Last call for Train 11. Departing at 1:00 AM.*”

Nora’s heart thudded in time with the words. She picked up her suitcase and followed him.

Platform 11 was almost empty just the train waiting in silence, its doors open like a promise. Julian stood near the edge, glancing back toward the station.

Then came the headlights. A black car screeched to a halt outside the gates. Men in dark coats stepped out.

Julian’s eyes widened. “Run!” he shouted.

Nora froze. The men drew their guns.

Julian turned, pushing her toward the train. “Go!”

The first shot echoed, cutting through the hum of the city. He stumbled but didn’t fall.

She grabbed his arm, pulling him inside as the train doors hissed shut.

They didn’t speak for a long time. Just the sound of the train moving metal against metal, the rhythm of escape.

Julian pressed a hand to his side. Blood. Not much time.

“You always said you wanted to see the ocean,” he murmured.

She nodded, tears stinging. “You promised.”

He smiled, eyes fluttering. “Guess I finally kept one.”

When the train reached the tunnel, the lights flickered and he was gone. Just gone. The seat beside her empty, his half ticket resting on the cushion.

Nora clutched her half tighter, staring out at the black window that reflected only her.

Then she saw it outside the train, in the reflection Julian, standing on the platform, alive, watching her go.

She gasped, turned but the tunnel was empty.

The voice over the intercom whispered again:

“Last stop… Nowhere Station.”

The train slowed. She stepped out into a place that wasn’t a city anymore just fog, silver light, and silence.

In the distance stood Julian, smiling. Whole.

“Where are we?” she asked, walking toward him.

“Somewhere between leaving and arriving,” he said softly. “You finally took the train, Nora.”

She wanted to touch him, but he stepped back, fading like smoke.

“I had to make sure you got here,” he whispered. “Now I can rest.”

The fog swallowed him, and when she looked down, the two halves of the ticket were one again whole, unbroken.

Back in the city, Platform 11 was empty.
The station clock still read 12:17.
And no one remembered a train ever leaving after midnight.

But sometimes, when the rain hits the glass just right, you can hear the echo of wheels and a voice saying

“Last call for the lovers who never made it home.”