Shawn giggled. He liked that the man still sounded like a meeting when everything else felt like a fairy tale.
More absurdities followed. A soul who had spent his life cheating at board games received a "Karma: Farm Slug" ticket. Someone who died from trying to dance off a cliff as a prank was assigned to "Seabird: Coastal Choir," a lineup that everyone agreed suited him.
Then a hush fell for an unknown reason. One of the Conductors unrolled a scroll that shimmered differently. The crowd leaned in.
"SOUL 1-4-9-8-71," he announced. "Cause of death: years of quiet, unpaid care, lifting entire families while being forgotten."
There was a murmur of recognition. The light around the soul was steady, warm, and full.
"Life review: sacrificial kindness, endless patience, love beyond measure. Judgment: Last Visit Pass granted. You may return to watch the place where you labored one final time, to see the faces you mended and hear the laughter you inspired. Then proceed to your carriage."
The soul smiled a small, broken smile and began to cry—tears that shone like pearls. Currents lifted her gently. She drifted away with a kind of peace Shawn had not yet felt but suddenly wanted.
A little later, the conductor's baritone boomed again.
"SOUL 1-4-9-8-90. Cause of death: heroic attempt to stop a collapsing bridge. Died in the attempt."
The crowd went silent in reverence. For a long beat the only sound was the faint lapping of the silver sea.
"Judgment: Reborn into Noble Lineage. Carriage 002. Honorary guardianship to the descendants you saved. Additionally, regression gate available after two life cycles."
Some souls sighed with happiness on his behalf. Others whispered about fate and how strange and fair and unfair the world could be.
As the minutes stretched, Shawn found himself fascinated rather than afraid. He watched a flamboyant soul attempt to haggle with a conductor by offering to be "extra entertaining" in the next life. He watched a small-time thief get a merciful return as a dog with a good home. He watched someone beg to be erased, and be granted release like a final, gentle mercy. Each outcome had its own sound—laughter, sobs, the clink of disappointment. The ocean absorbed it all.
Halfway through the endless list, a carriage with colors of polished onyx rolled close. Its door opened and a student soul stepped out. He had the look of someone who had died before his real life began. The conductor smiled at him kindly.
"SONG OF MERIT," the Conductor announced. "You may visit before rebirth. Step into the Memory Gate."
The boy's light shimmered; for one moment the sea filled with images of a crowded hospital bed, a hand squeezed in farewell, a father's voice. He walked through and then the ocean carried the image away like a film strip cut at the join.
Shawn pressed his glowing toes to the current and whispered, "That looked... poetic."
The businessman, ever practical, jotted nothing on his nonexistent clipboard. "It is designed for closure," he said. "Useful for reducing temporal dissonance."
"Temporal what?" Shawn asked.
"Never mind."
The line kept moving. People continued to hope, bargain, fume, accept. The Conductors worked with the bored efficiency of cosmic civil servants balancing a ledger of souls. The ocean reflected light and stories and the small human absurdity of wishing for better luck.
As the afternoon of the afterlife stretched on, a rare event occurred: a famous soul—legend in multiple realms for a life of sacrifice and reform—floated forward. The crowd hushed. This was not comedic. This was the sort of case the lesser souls whispered about when they thought they were alone.
His life review read like an epic. He had reformed a corrupt state, risked everything, and still felt regret for lives lost. The conductor's hand trembled as he wrote.
"Judgment: Noble Reincarnation accepted. Prime Lineage. Additionally, access to the Regression Gate for one cycle, conditional."
The crowd erupted. Bells chimed. A chorus of light sang. The noble bowed with quiet dignity and then, in a gesture that stunned everyone, he reached back into the crowd and touched the shoulder of a small glowing shape. It was a child soul who had followed him once in life—someone he had protected.
The child giggled, surprised. "Sir?" he said.
"Go learn," the noble whispered. "And remember to fix the small things."
Shawn felt unexpectedly moved. Small ripples of feeling whooshed through him like a festival breeze. He squeezed his hands into fists again and imagined one day being able to hand a younger Shawn a better future.
The Conductors continued. Tickets shone and fell into palms, each one a ledger entry, each one a promise or a sentence. Shawn made quiet jokes with the businessman about the absurdity of being a mountain goat. The businessman countered with meeting metaphors and occasional parental wisdom.
"Do you think you'll get regression?" Shawn asked once, half to himself, half to the man.
"If you already did great things," the businessman said, "it is likely. Potential informs allocations. Unfulfilled potential often receives a boost. But rules are rules."
Shawn swallowed. Potential. Unfulfilled. He poked his glowing hand at the water. "That means… I could be something cool next time?"
"You could be," the businessman said, with the faintest glimmer of warmth.
A Conductor called out a final case before the slow cadence of the train began to arrive.
"SOUL 1-4-9-8-114. Cause of death: accident while inventing. Life review: brilliance cut short. Unfulfilled potential: maximum. Judgment: Assigned to High Potential Cycle. Eligible for enhanced life seed and mentorship bond. Carriage 007."
Shawn felt something tighten in him, the light inside his outline pinging like a tiny bell. He glanced sideways at the businessman, who gave him a curt nod.
Shawn's mouth formed words like a child whispering a wish. "If that's me, I'm going to build the best machine ever."
"You shall," the businessman said. "And document it."
The ocean brightened as the sound of the train grew nearer, the rails of light sliding into position across the sky like a ribbon. Souls gathered, tickets clutched in hands that had no fingers but somehow turned a paper when needed. The atmosphere hummed with expectancy, sorrow, and something that tasted a little like hope.
The conductor stood and tapped his scroll. He announced, with the gravitas of a bell ringer, "All judged souls, prepare for boarding. The Great Train of Return will soon arrive. Carriages will be assigned. Regression candidates, please stand ready."
Shawn's heart—if he could call it that—fluttered. He had watched the full spectrum of outcomes. He'd seen cruelty erased, mercy granted, the hilarity of cosmic justice, and the quiet rewards for those who had loved without fanfare. He felt small and oddly hopeful.
A ripple of light passed over the horizon. The first carriage drew close, glass doors sliding open to reveal worlds beyond. The train unfolded like a storybook, each carriage a promise, each door a new chapter.
Shawn took a breath he could not name. He looked at the businessman, who fixed his collar as if preparing for a meeting that lasted forever.
The conductor cleared his throat. "Prepare to board in order. Please keep any questions to the waiting canopy. Next soul for judgement—step forward."
The platform glowed, the sea held its rhythm, the train doors breathed in the starlight.
The name that rang out next was not Shawn's.
But the ocean did not relax.
It waited.