Nobody believed me when I said the old train station was still active.
“Evie, it’s been closed since 1979,” my sister groaned as we biked past it. “There’s probably racoons living in there.”
But that night, I heard it again: the train whistle.
I got out of bed that night and looked through the window blinds. The station was barley lit, but just a flicker of light came from the broken platform sign. Then I saw it.
A train.
Silver. Silent, just … waiting.
So I grabbed my flashlight and snuck out. My sneakers slapped against the sidewalk, heart racing faster than my steps. When I got to the station, the train was still there.
Empty.
The doors slid open with a hiss.
Of course I stepped inside.
The seats were spotless, like no time had passed. I walked down the aisle slowly, shining my light. No conductor. No passengers. Just that weird hum, low and electric.
Then I saw it: a journal.
It was sitting neatly on the last seat, like someone had just left it there for me. The cover was brown and cracked, like it had been opened a hundred times before. I reached for it slowly, half expecting it to disappear. But it didn’t. It was real.
I flipped to the first page. The handwriting was loopy and neat: To the next passenger of Platform Zero: You’ve been chosen.
I blinked. Platform what? There were only three platforms at this station: One, Two, and Three. I’d been coming here since I was five, mostly to ride my bike in circles in the empty parking lot. I would’ve seen a Platform Zero sign … wouldn’t I?
I flipped to the next page.
If you want answers, stay until the train moves.
I closed the journal quickly, heart thudding. I needed to get out. This had to be someone’s idea of a joke. But when I turned back toward the door, it was closed.
I rushed over and yanked at it. Nothing. I pushed the emergency button.
Dead. The hum got louder, steady. Like the train was breathing.
“Okay,” I whispered. “It’s just a dream. Or I hit my head or something …”
That’s when the lights flickered.
The windows went black, not dark “black”. Like the world outside was gone.
I backed away slowly and sat down, gripping the journal like it was a life jacket.
The train jolted.
It started moving smooth and fast. But we weren’t going past houses or trees or anything normal. Outside the windows were flashes of … memories? I saw my fifth birthday party. My first violin recital. My dad waving goodbye before his last trip.
“What is this?” I gasped.
I flipped the journal open again.
The train knows your story. It’s taking you to the moment you need.
That’s when I saw the next line, written in fresh ink:
Hold on, Evie. You’re not alone.
I gasped. That wasn’t there before. Someone … or something … was writing to me. Right now
