Strangers Again

The train shuddered once—enough to disturb the surface of Mara’s coffee—then stopped.

Not at a station. Not in a tunnel. Just… nowhere.

Outside the window: fog. White and thick like cotton dragged across the sky. There was no road, no tracks, no city. There was just fog consuming the world.

She blinked and looked around. The carriage was nearly empty. A woman in a gray coat was dozing, her head tilted against the glass. A kid with earbuds bobbed his head to a beat no one else could hear.

Then there he was, in front of her.

A man, maybe in his late twenties. Dark coat, navy. A constellation embroidered in the collar, the stars in silver thread. She hadn’t seen him before. Didn’t notice him getting on.

He was already gazing at her. Not creepily but in a silent, familiar manner.

“Have we met before?” he questioned.

Her heart skipped.

“Sorry?” she said, though she heard him.

“You look like someone I forgot to remember.”

Mara smiled quietly as she was taken aback by how sad and strange that sounded. “That’s a new one.”

The doors slid open with a hiss.

Outside: no platform, no concrete. A big expanse of golden grass that swings under a lavender sky.

No city. No tracks. No wires. No noise.

She moved forward to take a look, and noticed a tiny rusty sign affixed to the ground. It read:

DEPARTURES ONLY

The man stood, as if he knew what this was.

“Come with me,” he said.

She felt the urge to say no. But her body remained stationary.

“Where are we?”

“You know already,” he said quietly. “You've been here before.”

That wasn’t possible.

Was it?

The woman in the gray coat did not move. The kid's head continued bobbing. None of the others moved. They just froze.

Mara stood slowly. Her legs felt both weightless and heavy, like in a dream.

“Is this—what is this?” she said.

He glanced back at her with a sort of… pity? Or perhaps comprehension.

"It's the moment before".

“Before what?”

He didn’t answer.

She stepped off the train.

The field was warm. The grass reached her knees and rustled like whispers. The air smelled like earth after rain. She turned back—

The train had vanished.

So was the track.

Just fog. Just sky.

Just him.

He remained at her side, gazing up. “You always depart before I can inquire about your name.”

Mara frowned. “We've done this before?”

“Yes.”

“Are you saying I’ve dreamed this?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps it is a memory of a dream. Or the dreams within a memory.”

"This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Does it have to?”

She stepped away from him. The field stretched endlessly in all directions. No roads. No destination.

Just a sense: that she was about to do something.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

He paused. “Nothing. Just a moment. Like always.”

The wind picked up, brushing her hair into her eyes.

She looked at him again. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “But I think you could have.”

They remained silent. A long distance away, the thunder growled.

"I don’t know who you are," she whispered.

He nodded. “But doesn’t a part of you feel that you should?”

Mara placed a hand against her chest. That hurt again. That peculiar longing for something that once existed, or maybe never at all.

“I don’t believe in fate,” she said.

“Neither do I,” he told her. “But I believe in echoes.”

He sat in the lawn and gazed up at her. “Do you want to know why you’re here?”

“More than anything.”

“This is the place between.”

“Between what?”

“Between remaining asleep and awakening. Between forgetting and recalling. Between remaining a stranger and not.”

She looked at him. “You mean this is a dream?"

“No,” he said. “The place where everything could have been different.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

He smiled, tired and wistful. “I only exist here because you almost remembered me.”

A chill passed over her.

“What do you mean?”

"One time we crossed paths in real life. At a bookstore. I was grabbing the final copy of Norwegian Wood. You gave me the book. We smiled at each other."

Mara's lips opened.

“…” she started. But no memory came. Just that pain again, somehow intensified.

“You wore a red scarf,” he told her. “There was a tiny tear close to the fringe.”

Mara touched her scarf. Red. Torn.

She hadn’t worn this in years—why had she put it on today?

“You remembered just enough,” he said. “And that’s why I’m here.”

She felt her knees buckle and she sat down opposite him.

“What is this insanity?” she hissed.

He smiled. “A little.”

A lengthy silence ensued between the two. Then he questioned:

"If we'd spoken that day. do you think anything would've happened?"

Mara remained silent.

“I’d want us to discuss books,” he told me. “Then films. Then childhood terrors. Then the ways we feel less alone.”

"You don’t know me," she said.

"No," he agreed. "Maybe I could have."

The air above them throbbed, changing color from lavender to indigo. The yellow grass sparkled as if it were composed of static.

"It's fading," he whispered. "You're coming back around."

“No.” The word escaped her before she could think.

He smiled sadly at her. “It always finishes here.”

“Because we never got beyond the moment. The almost. The maybe.”

The gale was heavier now. The paddy field was coming apart at the corners.

“Say your name,” she said.

He stared at her as if she’d just requested something holy.

“You won’t remember it.”

“Go ahead and try.”

He reached out and gently took her hand. His touch was warm. Real. Anchoring.

“My name is Elijah.”

Domestic

The world shattered like glass.

A soundless snap. The fog folded in. The colors collapsed.

And then—

She awoke.

—

The train moved suddenly forward and Mara jolted up in her chair.

The coffee in her hand was cold. The window displayed city buildings again. Normal. Gray.

She looked around. The woman in the gray coat was awake and stretching. The teenager was texting.

And across from her—

No one.

Just an unoccupied chair.

She glanced down at her scarf. Red. Ripped.

Her chest ached.

“Next stop, Union Station,” the announcement stated.

The train retarded.

She got up. Walked toward the door.

Then, just as it was opening—

A man entered the automobile. Navy coat. Silver constellation embroidered into the collar.

They locked eyes.

He paused.

And then, almost breathless: “Do I know you?”