Snow blanketed the tracks like a burial shroud as the Midridge Express rolled slowly out of the tunnel, its metallic frame groaning as if exhaling after a long-held breath. The dawn outside was pale and quiet. Peaceful, almost—if not for the weight in the air that none of the passengers could shake.
The bodies had been moved to the storage cabin.
Silas Graye was under watch, unconscious and handcuffed, bruised but alive. The knife had been his last card—and he had played it too late.
Luke leaned on the wall of the cabin, arms crossed, watching Arthur speak quietly to the conductor. Arthur's voice was unreadable now. Cold. Professional.
"He'll be transferred at the next stop. Tell them to prepare isolation."
The conductor nodded, too pale to question him.
As Arthur turned away, Luke fell into step beside him. "So that's it? No grand reveal? No drama?"
Arthur's voice didn't rise. "No drama left. Just the paperwork."
But even as he said it, his fingers twitched—like they were still bound by something unseen. Still locked in those invisible chains that had coiled tighter with every death.
In the observation car, the surviving passengers sat in subdued silence. Reinhart, glassy-eyed, stared out at the snowfall. Seraphine sipped tea, her expression neutral.
No one wanted to talk about the night before.
And yet, when Arthur entered, all eyes turned.
He didn't ask them questions.
He gave them a choice.
"You can give statements now or wait for the authorities at the next stop. Either way, your involvement is documented. The Midridge Express will be grounded for investigation."
Reinhart looked up. "You think we're accomplices?"
Arthur didn't blink. "I think you all knew more than you said. And I think Evelyn died for something none of you were brave enough to admit."
Reinhart flinched.
Seraphine set down her cup. "So what happens to us?"
Arthur walked to the center of the room.
"Nothing."
A pause.
"Not today."
Luke looked over, confused, but Arthur's voice carried steel beneath the surface.
"I'm not the police. I'm not your judge. But the truth doesn't vanish with the snow. It waits. It rots."
He turned, stepping toward the door.
"But it never disappears."
By afternoon, the train pulled into the snowy outskirts of the next station.
Authorities waited.
Silas was taken without resistance, his smirk absent now.
Arthur watched from the platform, coat fluttering in the wind.
Luke stood beside him, silent until the officers had left.
"You okay?"
Arthur didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the tracks stretching into the horizon.
"No," he said finally.
Luke nodded, hands in his pockets. "Yeah. Me neither."
As the train departed without them, Arthur stared at the fading silhouette.
He didn't feel relief.
He didn't feel victory.
Only the faint sound of those chains, still clinking softly in his mind.
Because for all the names crossed off, for all the ghosts unburied, one truth remained:
He wasn't done.
There were still others who needed to answer.
And Arthur Virelith—the ghost who walked in daylight, the man who once survived the wreckage of a dream—wasn't going to stop until they did.