No one at Aquarius Station slept peacefully that night.
It had started like any other morning. Trains arrived on time, vendors shouted, and passengers hurried along the platforms. The train master was heading toward his office when he noticed something unusual—a massive crowd gathered near Track Number 3.
Crowds never meant good news.
He ran.
On the railway track lay the body of a young girl.
At first glance, it looked like a normal railway accident. But as people moved closer, whispers turned into screams. Her body was untouched—no broken limbs, no torn clothes. Only her face was destroyed, shattered into pieces beyond recognition.
It didn't make sense.
Railway accidents never looked like this.
The train master felt a chill crawl up his spine. He immediately ordered the area to be sealed and had the body sent for post-mortem. By noon, the entire station was filled with one question—
What really happened to that girl?
At the hospital, silence took over the post-mortem room.
The doctors examined the body again and again, unable to believe the reports in front of them. Finally, one senior doctor turned to the police officer and said in a low voice,
"This was not a normal death."
The officer frowned. "Bodies are found on railway tracks every day. What makes this one different?"
The doctor removed his gloves slowly.
"Because after her skull was crushed," he said, "this girl stayed alive for nearly two hours."
The room went cold.
Two hours.
No screams were reported.
No one tried to help her.
And no one knew how she survived that long.
Outside the hospital, the night wind howled past Aquarius Station.
And somewhere in the darkness…
something was still waiting.
.
.
Night falls.
After completing his duty shift, at exactly 12:59 a.m., the same train master leaves the station and begins walking toward his home. Suddenly, he hears the sound of a clock ticking—and then stopping—showing the precise time: 1:00 a.m.
At that moment, the atmosphere of the station changes completely.
Cold winds begin to blow from every direction. The station is wrapped in an unnatural silence, as if the world itself has stopped breathing. That's when the train master notices a girl standing alone on the platform.
She is wearing a white gown, standing still, as if she is waiting for someone.
The train master thinks to himself—It's too late. There are no trains at this hour. Someone should tell her.
Slowly, he walks toward the girl and says, "You shouldn't stand here alone so late at night. There are no trains now. Please come back in the morning."
The girl gently turned around.
And in that instant, the train master froze.
His breath caught in his throat as his mind struggled to understand what his eyes were seeing. The girl standing before him had no face—no eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just a smooth, empty surface where a face should have been.
The wind howled louder, rushing through the empty platforms like distant screams.
The train master staggered back, his legs trembling. His heart pounded so hard it felt as if it might burst out of his chest. He tried to scream, but no sound came out.
The girl stood motionless.
Then, in a soft, hollow voice that did not come from any mouth, she spoke—
"Is the last train… still coming?"
The station lights flickered.
The clock above the platform began ticking again, slow and heavy. 1:01 a.m.
The train master turned and ran.
He did not look back.
Behind him, the cold air grew thicker, and the sound of slow footsteps echoed across Aquarius Station—steady, patient, and following him.
That night, the station records showed something impossible.
No train had passed through Aquarius Station at 1:00 a.m.
Yet someone…
was still waiting.