The Whistle at 11:47
The station was not on any map.
Rayan had checked—twice. Every railway schedule, every online archive, even the dusty register in the town library. Nothing mentioned a station beyond the old banyan tree.
Yet every night at exactly 11:47 PM, he heard it.
A train whistle.
Long. Hollow. Almost sorrowful.
No one else seemed to notice. When he asked his neighbors, they laughed. When he mentioned it at school, his friends shrugged it off as imagination.
But Rayan knew the difference between imagination and memory.
His father had disappeared two years ago on a late-night train journey. No accident. No wreckage. Just gone.
And since then, 11:47 had become a sacred, haunting hour.
One night, when the whistle pierced the silence again, Rayan made a decision.
He would follow it.