aman thakur

The Last Train Home The train station was nearly empty, save for a lone man sitting on a bench, his fingers drumming against a weathered suitcase. James checked his watch. 11:58 PM. The last train home would arrive in two minutes. A cold breeze swept through the platform, sending a shiver down his spine. He glanced around—no station workers, no other passengers. Just the flickering overhead lights and the distant sound of a train approaching. Then he heard it—a whisper. "James..." His breath hitched. He turned sharply. No one was there. The train screeched into the station, doors sliding open with a hiss. The interior was dimly lit, eerily silent. He hesitated, but stepped inside. As the doors shut behind him, the realization hit him—there was no conductor, no passengers. Only rows of empty seats. And then, from the far end of the car, a familiar voice called softly: "James... I've been waiting for you." His blood ran cold. He knew that voice. It belonged to his wife. But she had died five years ago. The train lurched forward, carrying him into the unknown.