Michael Reeves hadn't intended to catch the last train. He'd lost track of time at the office holiday party, laughing with colleagues he barely knew, drinking cheap wine from plastic cups. By the time he'd checked his watch, it was nearly midnight. He'd rushed to the station, sliding between the closing doors just as the final train of the night prepared to depart.
The carriage was surprisingly full for this hour. Men in business attire, women clutching handbags, a teenager with headphones. Michael found a seat across from an elderly gentleman reading yesterday's newspaper. Strange, Michael thought, how everyone seemed so... still. The train pulled away from the platform with a reluctant groan.
"Cutting it close," said the elderly man, not looking up from his newspaper. His voice had an odd, hollow quality, as if it were coming from somewhere else.
"Yeah," Michael agreed, settling into his seat. "Didn't realize how late it had gotten."
The old man folded his newspaper precisely along its creases. "Time has a way of slipping past, doesn't it?"
Michael nodded, uncomfortable under the man's gaze. His eyes were pale, almost colorless, and seemed to reflect nothing. The train lurched forward into the darkness of the tunnel. The lights flickered briefly, and in that moment, Michael could have sworn the old man's face changed—becoming gaunt, hollow-cheeked, with dark shadows beneath those colorless eyes.
Michael blinked, and the impression vanished. He looked around at the other passengers. None of them were talking. None were checking phones or reading books. They simply sat, staring ahead or out the windows at the darkness rushing past.
"Excuse me," Michael said to the woman beside him, a middle-aged woman in a gray suit. "Do you know how many more stops until Central?"
She turned to him slowly, mechanically. Her face was pleasant, ordinary. But her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I'm afraid we don't stop at Central anymore."
"What do you mean? This is the Central line."
"Not tonight," she said, still smiling that empty smile. "Not for you."
A chill ran down Michael's spine. He stood up abruptly. "I think I'm on the wrong train."
"No," said the elderly man. "You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
Michael moved down the carriage, trying to find a map, a schedule, any indication of where this train was headed. But the usual advertisements and notices were missing from the walls. Instead, the windows reflected the interior of the carriage, showing Michael moving among the still, silent passengers. But in the reflection, he was alone.
"What is this?" he whispered, his breath fogging in the suddenly cold air. "What's happening?"
A child's voice answered him. "You died."
Michael spun around. A little girl in a red coat stood in the aisle. She couldn't have been more than seven years old, with dark braids and solemn eyes.
"That's not funny," Michael said. "I'm not dead. I was just at a party. I'm going home."
"We're all going home," the girl said. "Just not the home you remember."
Michael's heart raced. He stumbled backward, colliding with a businessman who didn't react, didn't even seem to feel the impact. Michael realized with growing horror that he could see through the man's suit to the seat behind him.
"No," Michael insisted. "This isn't happening."
The train emerged from the tunnel into moonlight. Outside the windows was not the familiar cityscape but an endless, misty landscape. Trees and hills and distant mountains, all washed in silver light.
"What do you remember?" asked the old man, suddenly beside him. "About how you got here?"
Michael tried to think. The party. Leaving late. Running for the train. But before that? The day was a blur. He remembered waking up, going to work, the normal routine. But something had happened. Something he was forgetting.
"There was pain," he said slowly. "In my chest. At the party. I thought it was heartburn from the shrimp canapés."
"Heart attack," the old man said gently. "Quick, at least. You were gone before you hit the floor."
The teenage boy removed his headphones. "Car accident," he offered. "Texting and driving. Stupid."
The businesswoman smiled her empty smile. "Cancer. Three years fighting. It was almost a relief."
One by one, each passenger told their story. Illness. Accident. Age. Violence. The how didn't seem to matter much now. They all ended up on the same train.
"But why am I here?" Michael asked. "If this is... if we're all..."
"The train takes everyone eventually," the little girl said. "But sometimes people have unfinished business."
"What's mine?"
No one answered. The train continued its journey through the moonlit landscape. Michael sat down heavily, trying to process what was happening. If he was dead—and the evidence was becoming hard to deny—what had he left undone?
His life flashed before him, not in an instant as the stories claimed, but in slow, painful detail. The promotion he'd pursued relentlessly. The relationship he'd let wither because he was too busy. The parents he rarely called. The dreams he'd set aside for practicality.
"My wife," he whispered. "Emily. I forgot our anniversary. Again. I promised I'd make it up to her."
"Promises to the living can't be kept by the dead," the old man said. "But sometimes acknowledging them is enough."
"But she won't know. She'll just think I forgot again. That I didn't care."
The little girl placed her small hand over his. It was surprisingly warm. "Sometimes the dead can send messages."
The train began to slow. Outside, a platform materialized from the mist. It wasn't a station Michael recognized. It looked ancient, weathered stone bathed in that same silvery light.
"This is my stop," said the old man, rising. Others stood too. "You can come with us."
"Or you can wait," said the little girl. "The train will pass through the world of the living once more before dawn. If you concentrate very hard on your message, sometimes they can hear it in their dreams."
"And then?"
"Then you'll join us," the businessman said. "No one rides this train forever."
The doors opened. The passengers filed out, fading into the mist as they stepped onto the platform. Soon, only Michael and the little girl remained.
"Why are you staying?" he asked her.
"I wait for my mother," she said simply. "She still leaves a light on for me."
Michael nodded. The doors closed, and the train moved on.
As the night deepened, the mist outside began to thin. Buildings appeared, then streets. The familiar city emerged around them. Michael recognized Emily's apartment building as the train inexplicably passed it, though there were no tracks there in the world he knew.
He saw their bedroom window. The light was on. Emily was sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand. Even from this distance, he could see she was crying.
Michael closed his eyes and concentrated with all his might. I'm sorry. I love you. I've always loved you. Please know that.
He felt a strange warmth pass through him, like sunlight through glass. When he opened his eyes, Emily had looked up, directly at the train that shouldn't be there. For a moment—just a moment—their eyes met across the impossible distance.
Then the train plunged back into darkness. When light returned, they were back in the misty landscape, approaching that ancient platform again. This time, Michael knew it was for him.
"Did she hear me?" he asked the little girl.
"The living hear what they need to," she said. "Sometimes not in words."
The train stopped. The doors opened. Beyond the platform, Michael could see figures waiting in the silver light—his grandparents, an old friend who'd passed years ago.
"Time to go," the little girl said.
Michael stood. "What about you?"
She smiled, a real smile that reached her eyes. "I'll ride a little longer. But I'll see you again."
Michael stepped off the last train, into whatever waited beyond.
