Midnight Terminal

The city buzzed with the low hum of late-night traffic, a constant, rhythmic pulse that filled the air with a quiet urgency. Car headlights stretched across the streets in long, brilliant ribbons of white and red, cutting through the heavy mist rising from the wet asphalt like veins of light, throbbing with the lifeblood of a city that never truly slept. The rain had just begun to fall in steady sheets, each drop a shimmering bead against the harsh glow of the streetlights, turning the pavement into a slick mirror that reflected the blur of neon signs and storefront windows. The air felt thick with moisture, the coolness of it clinging to her skin, while the heavy scent of wet concrete and exhaust fumes mingled in the night.

Above her, the sky hung like a blanket of soot, heavy and gray, broken only by the flickering streetlights that fought against the darkness like tired stars. They cast pools of yellow-orange light that rippled across the damp sidewalks, illuminating forgotten litter and casting long shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly down the narrow alleyways between buildings. The windows of the nearby apartments glowed faintly, ghostly, as if the people inside were drifting in their own quiet worlds, unaware of the storm outside.

The sidewalks, slick with rain, shimmered underfoot as if the city itself were trying to wash away its weariness, but the grime and exhaustion clung stubbornly to every corner, every crack in the pavement. The soft splashing sound of passing cars sent ripples through the reflective surface of the street, distorting the world for a moment before it settled back into place. The hum of the city never stopped, but tonight, it seemed muted, as though everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something.

The lights of distant billboards flickered intermittently, casting brief flashes of color across the wet streets before they vanished again, leaving the world in a strange, momentary blackness. The rhythm of the rain against the roof of a nearby bus stop provided a steady backdrop to the faint clinking of metal as a lone figure passed by, his footsteps lost in the symphony of the night. Everything, it seemed, was coated in a veneer of dampness—everything but the stillness, that is. The city was alive, yet eerily quiet. As if the rain was the only thing that truly moved.

Maren stepped off the curb, her boots sinking slightly into the wet ground with each step, sending a spray of droplets in every direction. She pulled her coat tighter around her, the thin fabric doing little to keep the dampness from creeping in. The familiar weight of her bag felt oddly comforting against her side, though the unease creeping up her spine was harder to shake off. The city had always felt like a place she could disappear into, a place where she could be nothing and no one. But tonight, something felt different.

She couldn't shake the feeling that something was... missing. The city, usually alive with the noise of late-night drifters and the buzz of street vendors, felt unnervingly still. It was as though the streets had emptied out, leaving only the weight of their silence behind. She glanced around, her eyes scanning the empty intersections, the silent storefronts. Where was everyone?

Pushing the thought away, she focused instead on the rhythm of her walk. The train station wasn’t far, just a few blocks away. But the farther she walked, the more the quiet seemed to settle over her. The air around her felt dense, heavy, as though it had been soaked with the rain and weighed down by the hum of the city’s constant motion.

As she neared the train station, a sudden gust of wind whipped through the street, pushing the rain sideways and making her shiver. She ducked under the awning of an old café, one that had been here since she could remember, though it had seen better days. The lights inside flickered as if the building itself were fighting against the decay around it. The street, though nearly empty at this hour, felt unusually desolate. The buzz of far-off traffic mixed with the sound of her own breath, the only sound in a world that felt strangely muted.

Maren glanced down the street, eyes scanning the few figures hunched under umbrellas. None of them looked familiar, their faces shadows against the brightness of the streetlights. She couldn’t help but wonder, briefly, where everyone was. The city wasn’t supposed to feel this empty.

A quick glance at the clock on the café’s wall told her that she was running out of time. The last train would be leaving in just a few minutes. She sighed, pushing away the creeping sense of unease, and stepped back into the rain, heading toward the station.

The train station, though only a few blocks away, felt miles from everything else. It was a small, nearly forgotten relic of a bygone era, nestled between two crumbling buildings on the outskirts of town. The air here was always thick with the smell of rust, mildew, and old brick. The platform stretched out before her, empty, save for the faint hum of a single flickering light overhead. The sound of her footsteps against the wet pavement echoed unnaturally loud, the only noise in a space that should have been bustling with life.

The turnstile clicked open as she swiped her card, and she passed through with the practiced ease of someone who had made this trek many times before. The station was as she remembered it—quiet, worn, and nearly abandoned. The benches were empty, and the walls were marked with faded posters for events long passed. Everything here felt frozen in time, as though nothing had changed for years, and nothing ever would.

Maren made her way to the platform, glancing up at the timetable posted on the wall. The last train was due in just five minutes. She sat on a nearby bench, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of her bag. The wind howled outside, carrying with it the sound of distant car horns and the faint screech of tires against wet asphalt. The station felt almost... unnatural in its stillness. She glanced around, but the waiting area was empty except for a lone figure sitting on a bench in the corner.

The man was hunched over, scribbling furiously on a crumpled piece of paper. His face was hidden under the hood of his jacket, and his hands trembled slightly as he wrote. Maren watched him for a moment, her attention caught by the strange intensity in his movements. She couldn’t explain why, but something about him felt out of place in this forgotten corner of the city.

She shifted uncomfortably, but before she could look away, the man glanced up, his eyes flicking toward her for a brief moment. His gaze was quick, almost too quick, but it was enough to send a strange shiver down her spine. He didn’t speak, but something about the way he looked at her unsettled her.

Maren stood abruptly, deciding to distance herself from the man. She wasn’t sure why, but her instincts told her to keep moving. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she turned toward the platform, her feet carrying her toward the tracks.

The train wasn’t due yet, but she could feel its presence, like a hum in the back of her mind. The walls seemed to pulse with the distant sound of its arrival. She stopped at the edge of the platform, staring out into the darkness beyond. The air felt thick, oppressive, as though the very world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

And then, in the distance, she heard it—a low, mechanical groan, followed by the screech of metal against metal. The train appeared slowly, its lights cutting through the dark like a pair of glowing eyes in the distance. It was huge, its shape blurry in the mist, and as it drew nearer, Maren couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The train didn’t look like any train she’d ever seen before. It wasn’t just the old, battered appearance of the cars; it was something else, something about the way it moved, the way the air seemed to shift around it.

The train slid to a stop with a hiss, and the doors opened with a soft whoosh. The interior was dimly lit, and there were no sounds coming from inside, no murmur of conversation or the shuffle of passengers. The train seemed empty, but there was an odd, lingering presence about it. A presence that made her hesitant to step aboard.

The man from the bench appeared behind her, moving with the same jerky, almost unnatural motions. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were wide, locked on the train as though he were staring at something dangerous, something he couldn’t escape. Without a word, he walked forward, slipping into one of the empty cars, his shoulders hunched as though he were trying to make himself smaller, to disappear.

Maren stood still for a moment, staring at the train. Her instincts screamed at her to leave, to turn around and walk away from this eerie, silent place. But there was something drawing her in, an inexplicable pull. She took a step toward the train, then another, until her feet were carrying her inside, against her better judgment.

The doors closed behind her with a soft hiss, and the train jolted forward, sliding silently through the darkened city. The interior was cold, dim, and sparsely furnished—empty rows of seats with cracked leather cushions, their surfaces worn with age. There were no other passengers, no conductor. Only the soft hum of the train as it moved through the city, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks.

Maren chose a seat near the back, her fingers twitching nervously as she gripped the armrests. She glanced across the aisle at the man, who was now sitting in the corner, his head bent low as though he were hiding from something. She tried to ignore the rising unease in her chest, but the silence was suffocating. The city outside was a blur of dim light and shadows, but as the train moved deeper into the night, the world beyond the windows seemed to fade.

The man looked up at her suddenly, his eyes wide with fear. “This is the last train,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “You can’t get off once it starts moving. Not until it’s too late.”

The words hung

in the air like a curse, thick with the weight of some unseen danger.

Maren opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but before she could speak, the train lurched violently, its speed increasing. The lights inside flickered. The sound of the wheels grew louder, more frantic, as if the train itself was racing toward something it couldn’t outrun.

The city outside was gone now. There was only the train. And the dark.