Adrian's heart shattered.
Strange memories began to consume him relentlessly.
Flames, smoke, the desperate cry of a child, a train that had derailed decades ago.
"Blackridge" had once been a busy junction. On a tragic winter night, the last train of the season never reached its destination. It crashed beyond the mountains. The officials had declared the incident a mere accident.
But the truth had been buried.
The railway tracks had been sabotaged.
And Adrian… he was there.
Not as a journalist—but as a signal operator. He had seen the fault in the warning light. But he had hesitated. He had delayed. He thought he would investigate the matter in the morning.
By then, it was too late. "Forty-seven"
passengers died. The little child holding the red balloon also died.
Guilt consumed him from within. So deeply that his mind shattered the memory itself into pieces. He tried to recreate himself. To construct a new narrative.
after a while..
He returned to Blackridge to "investigate."
But he was not chasing any story. He was reliving the very event.
"The Last Train" was not collecting souls—it was collecting unresolved guilt.
And for years, Adrian he just couldn't remember.
The unseen passenger beside him finally revealed itself—not in form, but in feeling.
Heavy.
Ancient.
And terribly familiar.
It was his own regret.
In the next moment, the conductor stepped back. He looked toward the train window. "The final stop has arrived." And as soon as the stop came, the doors opened automatically. Outside, there was no station. There was the crash site—frozen in time. The passengers stood up for the first time.They turned to look at him.
Not with anger.
Not with accusation.
They were simply waiting.
Adrian felt tears on his cheeks. "I'm sorry…" he whispered.
Something invisible inside his heart grew slightly lighter. Not completely gone—but eased.
The conductor watched him silently.
-
"You may step away now," he said.
Adrian hesitated.
"If I leave… what will happen?"
The conductor's silver eyes softened.
Adrian stepped off the train. The doors closed again automatically.
The train vanished into the mist.
And for the first time in decades—at 11:47 PM, Blackridge Terminal was completely empty.
No train arrived.
No footsteps echoed.
Only silence.
But sometimes, when the fog settles over the abandoned tracks, the locals say they see a man standing near the mountainside. Staring at the horizon.
And if you ever find yourself at a station where there is no train schedule—
And you hear footsteps right behind you—
Do not turn around.
Because some passengers cannot be seen.
And some trains… are still waiting.