The Midnight Refrain

The clock struck midnight, and the train lurched forward, breaking the eerie stillness that had settled over the platform. Pale, flickering lights hung overhead, casting long, warped shadows across the cracked pavement. Lucy sat by the window, her breath fogging the glass as she watched the bleak landscape slip into motion.

She couldn’t remember boarding the train. One moment, she had been wandering through a city she didn’t recognize—its streets lined with buildings that loomed like silent sentinels, strange and unfamiliar—and now, here she was. The compartment was old-fashioned, with velvet seats worn thin and brass fixtures tarnished by time. The air was damp and carried the faint scent of mildew, mixed with something metallic, like copper.

Lucy shifted uneasily in her seat. She wasn’t alone. Across from her, a man sat, staring at the floor with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. His face was partially hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and his coat was long and frayed at the edges. He hadn’t moved since she noticed him, and though his presence felt vaguely threatening, he remained still, as though carved from stone.

The train rattled over the tracks, picking up speed. Outside the window, the fog grew thicker, swirling in strange, rhythmic patterns that seemed almost alive. It clung to the barren fields, obscuring anything beyond the immediate stretch of track. Lucy pressed her forehead against the cold glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of something familiar, but there was nothing—only the swirling fog and the strange, endless darkness beyond.

Suddenly, the man across from her spoke, his voice low and gravelly, barely above a whisper. “Have we met before?”

Lucy blinked, startled by the question. She hadn’t expected him to speak, let alone ask something so oddly intimate. She turned to face him, but his gaze remained fixed on the floor.

“I… I don’t think so,” she replied, though the words felt wrong as they left her mouth. There was a strange sense of déjà vu, like she had met him before, but the memory was distant, buried deep in her mind.

He finally looked up, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. “You look familiar,” he said softly. “Like someone I used to know… a long time ago.”

Lucy didn’t respond. She didn’t know how to. There was something unsettling about his words, about the way he said them, as if time itself bent to his will. She shifted in her seat, trying to ignore the knot forming in her stomach.

The train rattled again, a violent shudder that shook the entire carriage. Lucy’s heart raced as she gripped the armrests, her knuckles white. Outside, the fog began to thicken even more, to the point where she couldn’t see anything beyond the window, not even the ground.

The man across from her remained calm, his hands resting on his lap as though nothing unusual was happening. “You’ve been here before,” he said suddenly, his voice barely audible over the noise of the train. “This place… it isn’t new to you.”

Lucy frowned. “What do you mean? I’ve never been on this train in my life.”

He didn’t answer immediately, instead letting the silence stretch out, the only sound the low hum of the train. Finally, he tilted his head slightly, as if considering her. “You might not remember,” he said softly, “but this place remembers you.”

The fog outside the window twisted into strange shapes, almost like figures dancing in the mist. Lucy felt a chill crawl up her spine. Something about this whole journey felt wrong, like she was trapped in a dream she couldn’t wake from. She wanted to demand answers from the man, to ask what he meant by all of this, but the words stuck in her throat.

The train screeched as it began to slow, the grinding of the brakes echoing through the empty carriage. Lucy looked out the window, expecting to see a station, but there was nothing—just an endless expanse of fog. The train came to a stop anyway, the sudden stillness unnerving.

The man stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, brass pocket watch, glancing at it briefly before slipping it back into his pocket. “This is your stop,” he said, gesturing toward the door.

Lucy stared at him in disbelief. “My stop? There’s nothing here. I’m not getting off in the middle of nowhere.”

He didn’t argue, simply turned and walked toward the exit. “You’ve been here before,” he repeated as he reached the door, pausing just long enough to give her one last look. “Whether you remember or not, you belong here.”

With that, he stepped off the train and disappeared into the fog.

Lucy sat frozen, unsure of what to do. The train remained still, its engine humming softly as if waiting for her to make a decision. Her instincts screamed at her to stay on the train, to ride it until it reached some semblance of civilization, but something in her—a deeper, inexplicable pull—urged her to follow the stranger.

She stood slowly, her legs shaky, and walked toward the door. The fog swallowed her whole as she stepped off the train, the cold, damp air pressing against her skin like a wet blanket. She squinted, trying to make out her surroundings, but there was nothing—just the endless fog and the faint outline of the train behind her.

A distant sound echoed through the mist. It was faint, barely perceptible, but it tugged at her, drawing her deeper into the unknown. She hesitated for a moment, then began to walk, her footsteps muffled by the thick fog that clung to the ground.

The further she went, the more the landscape seemed to shift. Shadows moved in the mist, forming shapes that were almost human, but not quite. Buildings materialized and then dissolved as quickly as they appeared—abstract, impossible structures that seemed to defy the laws of physics.

Lucy felt like she was walking through someone else’s dream, a place where reality twisted and bent in unnatural ways. The sound grew louder, more distinct—a soft melody, like the faint notes of a piano carried on the wind.

She followed the music, her mind swimming with questions. Who was that man? How had she ended up here? Why did this place feel so familiar, even though she was certain she had never seen it before?

As she rounded a corner—though she wasn’t sure how there could be corners in a place like this—she found herself standing before a door. It was old, weathered, and cracked, yet it stood impossibly tall, stretching upward into the fog. The music was louder now, coming from behind the door, beckoning her to enter.

Lucy hesitated, her hand hovering over the rusted doorknob. She knew, deep down, that whatever lay beyond that door was something she wasn’t prepared for—something that would change everything.

But the pull was too strong. With a trembling hand, she turned the knob and stepped inside.

The room was vast and empty, save for a single grand piano in the center. Seated at the piano was the man from the train, his back to her as his fingers danced across the keys. The melody was haunting, beautiful, and somehow achingly familiar.

Lucy took a step forward, her voice barely a whisper. “What is this place?”

The man didn’t stop playing, but his voice echoed through the room. “This is the in-between. The place where things that are forgotten go.”

She frowned, stepping closer. “Forgotten?”

He nodded, still playing. “Memories, people, places… they all end up here eventually, when they’re no longer remembered. And so do those who belong here.”

Lucy’s heart pounded in her chest as the truth began to dawn on her. “I don’t belong here,” she said, though her voice wavered.

The man stopped playing, the last note hanging in the air like a question. He turned to face her, his dark eyes full of something she couldn’t name—something ancient and knowing.

“You already do,” he said softly. “You’ve been here before.”

And in that moment, Lucy remembered.

The end.