The Last Train Out Part 1

The train pulled into the station, its brakes hissing as it came to a slow, final stop.

Robert stepped off, adjusting the strap of his worn leather bag. The air smelled of rain-soaked concrete and cold iron, and the platform stretched before him in dim yellow light. This place was smaller than he’d remembered. Or maybe he was just larger now, weighed down by years of absence.

He had told himself he wouldn’t come back. That was ten years ago, and yet here he was, standing in the place he had fled from at eighteen. It wasn’t nostalgia that brought him — more a sense of unfinished business. Or maybe it was just that, after drifting from city to city, he had finally run out of places to go.

The town beyond the station was silent. Small shops lined the streets, their windows dark. The old movie theater still had its marquee, but the letters were faded, some missing. The clock tower above the courthouse was still stuck at 3:17 — just like the night he left.

Robert turned down Main Street, past the diner where he and Jackie used to sit in the corner booth, arguing about everything and nothing. A part of him expected to see her still there, rolling her eyes at something dumb he said, but of course, she wasn’t. She had stayed in this town, last he heard, married with two kids. He had wanted to reach out once, but what could he say? Hey, remember me? I left and never looked back.

Instead, he walked past, his reflection a ghost in the dark window.

The road to his old house was lined with skeletal trees, their branches bare in the autumn chill. He hesitated at the front gate. The house looked smaller than he remembered, the white paint now chipped and graying. The porch light was out.

He wasn’t sure why he knocked. He knew no one would answer.

His mother had died three years ago. He’d heard from an old acquaintance, some distant cousin who had tracked him down through social media. He hadn’t come back for the funeral. Couldn’t. He told himself it was because of money, or because it was too late by the time he heard. But deep down, he knew it was because he wasn’t ready to face the house again, the memories embedded in its walls.

He pushed the door open. It creaked on rusted hinges.

The living room was almost unchanged. The faded floral wallpaper, the lumpy brown couch. A thin layer of dust covered the coffee table. On the mantel, the old clock still sat, stopped at the exact moment his father had smashed it against the wall after one of their worst fights.

The silence pressed against him.

Upstairs, his old bedroom was the only place that felt different. The bed was gone. The walls, once covered in posters, were now bare except for faint outlines where the sun had bleached around them. The desk remained, though — scratched and scarred from years of him carving thoughts into its surface with a pocketknife.

He ran his fingers over the wood, finding the words he had once etched- Someday, I’ll leave and never come back.

Robert let out a slow breath.

The past was a strange thing. It never really left, no matter how far you ran. It clung to you, waiting for the moment you were foolish enough to turn around.

He left the house without closing the door.

It was late by the time he made it back to the station. The town still lay in stillness, the streets empty. The schedule board inside the station was faded, but he found his train listed — a midnight departure, the last train out.

He sat on the cold metal bench, watching as the minutes ticked by. Maybe this trip had been a mistake. Maybe he should have left things buried. But at the same time, he felt lighter. Like something had finally settled, even if he didn’t have words for it.

The train’s whistle cut through the night, and its headlights washed over the platform as it approached. Robert stood, shouldering his bag.

The train doors slid open, but Robert hesitated. His grip tightened on the strap of his bag.

For ten years, leaving had been the only thing he knew how to do. He had boarded buses without caring where they went, taken jobs that lasted only as long as his patience, and avoided anything that felt too permanent. But standing there on the empty platform, he felt the weight of something unresolved.

Instead of stepping onto the train, he stepped back.

The doors shut, and the train rumbled forward, disappearing into the dark.

Robert exhaled.

A small part of him had expected to feel regret, a pull of panic at letting his escape slip away. But there was none. He turned away from the tracks and walked back through the quiet town.

The streets were still empty, the houses dark. He passed the old bookstore where he and Jackie used to steal candy from the front counter when they were kids. The owner had always known but never said anything. He passed the school, the playground swings rusted and creaking in the wind. Ghosts of his younger self lingered in every corner of this place.

At the diner, the neon sign buzzed weakly, still advertising coffee for a dollar. The place was open twenty-four hours, though Robert doubted anyone was inside. He pushed the door open anyway.

The bell above the door jingled, and the woman behind the counter turned. She was older now, her hair streaked with gray, but he knew her instantly.

Jackie.

She blinked, setting down the cup she was drying. For a second, neither of them spoke. Then she shook her head, half in disbelief, half in amusement.

“Robert Dyer,” she said, leaning on the counter. “Well, hell. I never thought I’d see you here again.”

He shrugged, unsure how to answer.

She studied him for a long moment before nodding toward the booth in the corner. Their booth.

“Sit,” she said. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

He slid into the seat as she poured a cup and set it in front of him. The steam curled between them.

“So,” she said, crossing her arms. “Are you back for good, or just passing through?”

Robert traced the rim of the cup with his finger. He had told himself for years that this town wasn’t home. That he had no reason to stay. But sitting here now, in the only place that had ever really meant something, he wasn’t so sure.

“Not sure yet,” he admitted.

Jackie smirked. “Well, that’s a start.”

They sat in silence for a while, the quiet hum of the diner settling around them like an old, familiar song.

Hours passed. He told her about the places he had been, the people he had met. She filled him in on what he had missed — who had left, who had stayed, who had changed.

By the time the sun rose, the coffee cups were empty, and for the first time in a long time, Robert felt like he wasn’t running.

Still, the habit of leaving was hard to break. When the conversation lulled, he glanced toward the window. The train station was just down the street.

Jackie caught the look and shook her head. “If you’re gonna go, just go. But if you’re gonna stay, then stay. No half-measures.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

She smiled, the same knowing smile she had given him years ago when they sat in this booth and talked about the future like they had all the time in the world.

He finished his coffee.

Outside, the town was waking up. The streets, once so still, stirred with the quiet hum of early risers. He could hear the distant clang of a shopkeeper rolling up a metal shutter, the low murmur of a truck engine starting.

For a long time, he just sat there, absorbing it.

Then, finally, he stood.

Jackie didn’t ask what he had decided. She just nodded, as if she had known all along.

Robert stepped outside, feeling the crisp morning air settle against his skin. The past still lingered here, but it no longer felt like a weight. It felt like something else entirely.

A second chance.

He walked down the street, past the old courthouse, past the bookstore, past all the places that had once held him in memories. His steps felt lighter than they had in years.

And when he reached the station again, the train was just arriving.

The train pulled into the station, its brakes hissing as it came to a slow, final stop.