The station was almost deserted when he stepped onto the platform. The lamps above flickered weakly, as if reluctant to light the path. A cold breeze rattled through the broken shutters of the waiting hall, carrying the faint echo of announcements that never came.
He had been told this train never ran at this hour. No schedule, no noticeboard, no record. And yet, there it was—standing still at the edge of the platform, puffing a mist too thick to be mere steam.
The carriage doors opened with a groan, as though the train had been waiting for him alone.
He hesitated, then stepped in.
The interior smelled of dust and iron. A few passengers sat scattered across the dim-lit rows, their faces unreadable, their eyes mostly downcast. Some clutched bags, some held nothing at all, but all seemed unnaturally still.
He sat near the window, pulling his coat tighter. He told himself this was just another late ride. But something gnawed at him—the silence was wrong. No chatter, no footsteps, no restless movements. Just the low hum of the train breathing.
A cough broke the quiet. He looked up.
The Ticket Collector stood before him. His uniform was immaculate, his cap perfectly aligned. But instead of holding a puncher or asking for tickets, the man held a leather-bound journal.
"Your name?" the TT asked flatly.
The question was so direct it nearly jolted him.
"My… my name?"
"Yes." The TT's pen hovered above the page.
He frowned. "Don't you want to see my ticket?"
The TT's lips curled into something too stiff to be a smile.
"Your name is your ticket."
Reluctantly, he spoke it. The TT wrote it slowly, carefully, then nodded and moved to the next passenger.
That was when the narrator noticed it—the journal. Every page already filled with names. Hundreds of them, written in neat rows, some crossed out with a sharp line, others underlined twice.
The TT never asked for fares. Only names.
A chill climbed his spine. He pressed his palm against his own pocket and felt the shape of the small notebook he always carried. A strange urge seized him. He pulled it out and began writing too. Not names, but everything he saw.
At first, it was harmless observations:
Man in gray hat keeps dozing but never quite sleeps.
Old woman stroking rosary without moving lips.
Windows show forest, though the train left the city.
Clock above door reads 2:17… but hasn't changed in 20 minutes.
He wrote quickly, as if noting things would shield him from whatever this was.
Then he felt it—eyes. Watching him.
At the far end of the carriage, a young girl sat in a neatly pressed school uniform. Her satchel rested on her lap, unopened. Her dark eyes locked onto him with an intensity that made him look away.
He shifted in his seat, telling himself not to be foolish. Children stare all the time. But minutes passed, and every time he risked a glance, her gaze had not moved.
He wrote again: Schoolgirl. Staring. Not blinking.
The train rattled forward endlessly. He waited for stations to appear, but none did. Hours seemed to pass, yet the scenery outside remained a blur of trees and darkness.
At intervals, new passengers appeared, though he never saw them board. A man with a bandaged arm, a woman with damp hair as if she had come from rain, a soldier without medals. Each time, the TT arrived, asked only for their names, and inscribed them in the journal.
The narrator scribbled frantic notes, trying to catch details:
Man with bandage wrote his name himself when TT handed journal—letters shaky, like in pain.
Damp-haired woman smelled faintly of river water.
Soldier saluted TT after giving his name. TT did not return gesture.
And always, in the corner of his eye, the girl staring.
Finally, the train slowed. Relief washed over him—the station was near. He gathered his notebook, ready to leave.
But as he rose, the TT blocked his way. The man's voice was low, deliberate.
"Don't be curious. A Fool shouldn't worry about the dead."
The words struck him like a blow. He froze, searching the TT's face for meaning. But the man only tapped the journal once and stepped aside.
He stumbled out of the carriage, heart pounding. The platform was empty. No signs, no workers, just the faint creak of metal as the train pulled away into mist.
He turned to find the station master at his booth. The old man peered up at him, puzzled.
"There's no train here at this hour. Are you unwell?"
He said nothing, only walked home, every step heavier than the last.
Inside his room, he dropped his notebook on the desk. He saw the words he had written, the strange observations, the girl's eyes, the TT's warning.
He stood before the mirror, his reflection pale and trembling. The TT's words echoed again—A Fool shouldn't worry about the dead.
Something inside him snapped. With a cry, he drove his fist into the glass. The mirror shattered, scattering fragments across the floor.
He looked at his broken reflection, a hundred versions of himself staring back.
The notebook lay open on the desk, its last line scrawled in a hand that almost wasn't his:
They already know my name.