Chapter 7 - The Train Without Windows
The ground began to vibrate.
Dust fell from the signal-house ceiling as the approaching train moved closer through the darkness.
No whistle sounded.
No station bell rang.
Only the deep metallic rhythm of wheels striking old rails.
The man in the dark coat backed away.
“We need to leave.”
The colorful woman gave a bitter laugh.
“Now you’re afraid?”
He looked at her.
“You should be too.”
The train emerged between the trees.
It was painted completely black.
Its carriages had no visible numbers.
No company logo.
No destination signs.
Most disturbing of all, the windows had been covered from the inside.
The train slowed beside the abandoned platform.
The man ran toward his SUV.
Before he reached it, every door along the train opened at once.
Men and women in gray uniforms stepped onto the platform.
They moved silently.
None carried visible weapons.
Yet the man stopped immediately.
A woman with white hair approached him.
“Where is the passenger?” she asked.
He glanced toward the signal house.
The white-haired woman followed his gaze.
The colorful woman closed the broken door and turned to me.
“We have to go below.”
“Below what?”
She kicked aside an old rug.
A metal hatch lay hidden beneath it.
She pulled it open, revealing a narrow staircase descending underground.
The air rising from below smelled damp and cold.
I hesitated.
“What is this place?”
“The original station.”
We climbed down just as voices approached outside.
The woman closed the hatch above us.
Darkness swallowed us.
I switched on the railway lantern.
A tunnel stretched beneath the tracks.
Old signs hung from the brick walls.
Wooden crates had been stacked along both sides.
Some were marked with dates.
Others carried women’s names.
I recognized one immediately.
My own.
The crate bearing my name looked new.
A ticket had been attached to the lid.
Departure: tonight.
Destination: blank.
Passenger status: unconfirmed.
My hands went numb.
“They prepared this before we even visited my parents.”
The colorful woman examined the crate.
Then she found another label beneath mine.
It carried my daughter’s name.
A sound came from inside.
A faint vibration.
Like a phone ringing under the wooden lid.
I stepped closer.
The woman tried to stop me, but I had already lifted the metal latch.
Inside the crate was not luggage.
It contained photographs of my home, my workplace, my parents’ house, and my daughter’s apartment.
There were copies of legal documents.
Marriage certificates.
Passports.
Death records.
One death certificate displayed my full name.
The date of death was tomorrow.
At the bottom lay a mobile phone.
Its screen lit up.
An incoming video call.
The caller was my daughter.
I answered immediately.
Her face appeared, pale and terrified.
“Mom,” she whispered, “there’s a man inside my apartment.”
The camera shifted.
Someone stood behind her.
My sleeping husband.
He smiled into the screen.
May you like
Then he held up the silver pendant from her neck.
“Now,” he said calmly, “we can finally open the last carriage.”
