The Last Train to Midnight

Arman had never liked train stations after dark. There was something unsettling about the way the lights flickered above empty benches and how announcements echoed through halls that held no one. Yet on that cold November evening, he found himself standing alone on Platform 7, staring at the digital board that displayed a single line: Last Train to Midnight — Delayed. He checked his watch. It was already 11:43 PM. The wind pushed cold air through the open tracks, carrying the faint metallic smell of rust and rain. He told himself he was overthinking. It was just another late train. Nothing more.

He had stayed too long at the office again. Deadlines had piled up, and his promotion depended on delivering results. When his manager dismissed him with a quick nod, Arman ran all the way to the station, only to discover he had missed his usual 11:15 train. The midnight one was never part of his routine. In fact, he had never even seen it arrive before. Most nights, the platform emptied well before eleven-thirty. Tonight, however, there were three other passengers scattered along the platform: an elderly man gripping a leather suitcase, a woman in a long grey coat staring down the tracks, and a teenage boy with headphones, though no music seemed to be playing.

At 11:58 PM, the lights above flickered sharply, then steadied. A distant rumble vibrated through the rails. The train emerged from the darkness without headlights, gliding forward almost silently. Its exterior looked older than the others, painted in a faded shade of blue that peeled near the doors. When it stopped, the doors slid open with a long mechanical sigh. No conductor stepped out. No announcements were made. The four passengers exchanged uncertain glances, but one by one, they boarded.

Inside, the carriage was nearly empty. The seats were upholstered in deep red fabric, worn thin in places. The air felt heavy, as if untouched for years. Arman chose a seat by the window. The elderly man sat across from him, placing his suitcase carefully at his feet. The woman in grey remained standing for a moment before sitting near the back. The teenage boy disappeared into the next carriage without a word. The doors closed abruptly, and the train began moving before the clock struck twelve.

Arman frowned. The train wasn’t following the usual route. Instead of stopping at Central Square—the first stop on every line—it continued straight into a tunnel rarely used. He checked the route map above the door. The lights that normally indicated each station were blank. A strange unease settled in his chest. He leaned toward the elderly man. “Excuse me,” he asked quietly, “does this train stop at Riverside?” The man looked up slowly, his eyes tired but strangely calm. “It stops where it needs to,” he replied. “It always does.”

The words sent a chill down Arman’s spine. He tried to laugh it off, assuming the old man was simply eccentric. Minutes passed, though it felt longer. Outside the window, there was nothing but darkness—no station lights, no city glow. The train finally slowed. The doors opened to a platform Arman had never seen before. There was no station name, no signs, just a dimly lit corridor stretching into shadow. The teenage boy stood up from the next carriage and stepped off without hesitation. The doors closed again.

“Where are we?” Arman whispered. The woman in grey finally spoke from the back. “In between,” she said softly. Her voice echoed strangely, as though the carriage were larger than it appeared. Arman stood up abruptly and walked toward the door connecting to the next carriage. He needed answers. But when he opened it, he froze. The next carriage was empty—completely empty. No seats. No lights. Just darkness.

Next part will be soon