The next day smelled of sunlight and reheated coffee.
Campus looked almost new—puddles drying, uniforms wrinkled, the world pretending nothing strange had happened the night before.
Mika walked across the quad, clipboard tucked under her arm, hair still faintly curled from the rain.
Tom passed by on a bike, late for class as usual.
He lifted a hand, grin half-awake.
She waved back, small and steady.
No train, no ghosts.
Just schedules, papers, and the quiet knowledge that some things did arrive after all—
not with a whistle, but with timing that finally made sense.
At the gym door she paused, hearing sneakers on wood, the first drills of another morning.
She smiled—real this time—and wrote one last line before stepping inside:
Manager Rule #9:
Even if the trains never come, keep the tracks clean.
Someday, someone will need the way back.
End of Epilogue — "Morning Line"