The Last Train to Mirzaganj

 

The Last Train to Mirzaganj

The old station clock struck nine as Arjun stepped onto the deserted platform. The town of Mirzaganj was asleep, wrapped in the hush of a late monsoon night. A faint drizzle had just passed, leaving the air cool and heavy with the scent of wet earth. The flickering yellow bulbs along the station barely lit the ground, and Arjun wondered if the rumors were true—that the “last train” only came for those who were searching for something they had lost.

He clutched the worn leather bag tighter. Inside it was a faded photograph: a little boy, smiling with a kite in his hand. His son, Aarav. It had been two years since that accident on the highway. Two years of silence in their home. His wife, broken. His own heart, hollow. People whispered of a midnight train that could carry the grieving to places where memories lingered. He hadn’t believed it—until the dream began repeating, every night for the past month: the whistle of a train, a voice calling his name, and the glimpse of Aarav waving from a carriage window.

Tonight, he followed the dream.

The platform seemed abandoned, but he felt watched. The benches were cracked, the ticket booth shuttered. Only a stray dog lay curled near the stairs, opening one eye lazily at his presence. Then, at exactly nine-fifteen, the sound came—a distant, mournful whistle rolling through the night. Arjun’s breath caught. From the fog beyond the tracks, a train emerged, black and gleaming like wet coal, lanterns glowing with a bluish light.

It slowed with an eerie smoothness, no screech of metal, no sparks. Just silence. The doors opened without a conductor.

Arjun hesitated. His rational mind screamed that this was madness. But grief was stronger than reason. He stepped aboard.

Inside, the carriage was warm, the seats upholstered in deep red velvet. Lamps glowed gently, though there was no sign of electricity. The air smelled faintly of jasmine. There were passengers too—though none looked entirely alive. A woman in a bridal saree sat gazing at her bangles, which clinked softly though her eyes were hollow. An old man clutched a broken pocket watch, staring at it as though waiting for it to start again. A child, barefoot, hummed to herself, building towers out of invisible blocks.

Arjun’s heart raced. Was he dead already?

And then he saw him.

Aarav, sitting by the window, kite still in hand. His hair messy, his smile exactly as it had been. “Papa,” he called softly, as if he had been waiting.

Arjun stumbled forward, kneeling before him. Tears blurred his vision. He wanted to hold the boy, to crush him in his arms, but when he reached out, his hand passed through the child like mist.

“Papa, don’t cry,” Aarav whispered. “I’m happy here. I play every day. The train brings me friends. But you… you have to go back. Mama needs you.”

Arjun shook his head desperately. “I can’t. I don’t want to live without you.”

The boy’s eyes shimmered with a strange wisdom. “You must. If you stay, Mama will be alone. You can love me from there. I’ll feel it.”

The train gave another long whistle, and the lamps flickered. The woman in the bridal saree vanished. The old man dissolved like smoke. One by one, the passengers faded.

“Aarav!” Arjun cried, reaching out again. The boy smiled, lifting his kite. “Goodbye, Papa. Fly this kite for me.”

And then he was gone.

The carriage was empty. The doors opened.

Arjun stepped out onto the platform, heart heavy yet strangely lighter. The train whistled once more and melted back into the fog.

When the sun rose over Mirzaganj, the station master found him sitting on the bench, clutching a string. No kite, only string. Yet Arjun smiled for the first time in years.

He had taken the last train—and returned with the strength to live.