The Train That Never Stops

 

The Train That Never Stops

Mira stood on the platform at midnight, clutching her small suitcase. The station was nearly empty, except for a flickering lamp and the faint echo of footsteps. The schedule board was blank, yet she knew the train would come. It always came—for those who needed it most.

She had first heard about it from her grandmother, who whispered of a train that appeared without warning. “It doesn’t take you where you want to go,” her grandmother had said, “but where you’re meant to be.” Mira never believed such tales—until tonight.

The rumble came low and distant, like thunder rolling through mountains. The ground shook, and then she saw it: an endless train sliding into the station, its carriages dark and gleaming, windows glowing with a soft golden light. There was no conductor, no crowd, only a single open door.

Mira hesitated. She had left her old life behind—a job she hated, a love that had turned cold, a city that no longer felt like home. She had no plan, only an ache in her chest and a desperate wish for change. That was enough to make her step inside.

The carriage was warm, filled with velvet seats and lanterns swaying gently from the ceiling. She expected other passengers, but it was empty, silent except for the steady hum of motion. The train moved the instant she sat down.

At first, nothing seemed unusual. The darkness outside blurred into streaks of light, the rhythm of the wheels almost soothing. But then she noticed the windows. They didn’t show the landscape outside. Instead, each one revealed a memory.

In one window, she saw herself as a child, running barefoot through a summer field. Her father’s voice called her name, laughter echoing like music. In another, she saw her teenage self painting late into the night, colors splattered across her hands. Then came the harder images—her mother’s funeral, the arguments with Daniel before he left, the nights she cried herself to sleep in her apartment.

Mira tried to look away, but the memories kept flashing past, faster and faster, as if the train were pulling her entire life into the open. She buried her face in her hands, until a soft voice spoke.

“You cannot outrun your windows.”

She looked up. Across from her sat an old man in a gray coat, his eyes kind but tired. She was sure the carriage had been empty before.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Just another passenger,” he said. “Like you.”

Mira frowned. “Where is this train going?”

The man smiled faintly. “Where it always goes—to the truth you’ve been avoiding.”

Before she could respond, the windows changed again. Now they showed not the past, but possibilities: paths she might have taken, lives she might have lived. She saw herself as a teacher, laughing with children in a bright classroom. She saw herself traveling across deserts, painting landscapes in worn journals. She saw herself alone in a quiet cabin, at peace.

Her heart ached. “Why are you showing me this?” she asked.

The man leaned closer. “Because you’ve forgotten you still have a choice. You’ve been living as though your story is finished. But it isn’t.”

The train slowed. Outside, the windows showed a small station glowing with lanterns. The air beyond looked crisp, the streets alive with voices. Mira stood, gripping her suitcase.

“Is this… my stop?” she asked.

The man nodded. “Only you can decide.”

Her legs trembled as she walked to the door. The air rushed in, cool and sharp. She hesitated again, torn between fear and hope. Finally, she stepped off.

When she turned back, the train was already pulling away, vanishing into the night as if it had never been. The station around her bustled with life—vendors calling, musicians playing, strangers smiling as they passed.

Mira took a deep breath. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel lost. She felt… ready.

The train had not delivered her to a place on a map. It had delivered her back to herself.