Train 27

Rain had a way of making the city forget. It washed cigarette ash into the gutters, blurred footprints from the pavement, and softened the sharp edges of buildings until everything looked like a memory trying to disappear. By eight o’clock, the streets outside his apartment had emptied. He preferred them that way. Silence had become easier to live with than people. The kettle clicked softly in the kitchen. Steam curled toward the ceiling while he stood by the living room window, watching rain bead against the glass. Across the street, the florist was closing for the night. The owner carried the last bucket of white lilies inside before pulling down the metal shutter. White lilies. He looked away. His mug had gone cold hours ago. He lifted it anyway, took a sip, and immediately regretted it. A faint scrape echoed from the hallway outside his apartment. Not loud. Just enough to pull his attention toward the front door. The building was old. Pipes groaned. Floorboards shifted. Neighbours came and went at strange hours. Still… Something about the sound didn’t belong. He waited. Nothing. A minute passed. Then another. The silence returned. He exhaled through his nose, shook his head at himself, and reached for the remote. The evening news filled the room. “…tomorrow marks one year since the Train 27 tragedy. Families of the victims are expected to gather—” He muted the television before the presenter could finish. The apartment fell quiet again. His gaze drifted to the bookshelf in the corner. Every photograph on it faced the wall. Every single one. Another scrape. Closer this time. He set the mug down. Walked to the door. The peephole revealed an empty corridor stretching beneath flickering lights. No footsteps. No voices. No one waiting. He unlocked the door. The hallway smelled faintly of fresh paint. Empty. Until he looked down. An envelope rested neatly against the welcome mat. Cream-coloured. Thick. Perfectly dry despite the rain. His apartment number was written across the front. Nothing else. No return address. No courier label. No stamp. He glanced both ways down the corridor. Still no one. He picked up the envelope. The paper felt heavier than it should. Inside… A single silver train ticket slid into his palm. No departure station. No arrival station. No date. Only one line engraved across the centre. “VALID FOR ONE FINAL JOURNEY” His heartbeat slowed instead of quickening. That frightened him more than panic ever could. He turned the ticket over. Someone had written two words in black ink. “YOU REMEMBER” His fingers tightened around the edge of the ticket. For an instant— A child’s laughter. A carriage filled with warm light. The violent screech of twisting metal. A voice shouting— Then darkness. The memory vanished before he could hold on to it. His phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. Unknown Number. He stared at the screen until the ringing stopped. A second later… A message arrived. No greeting. No signature. Just one sentence. IF YOU THINK YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE LEFT, BE SAFE!! He frowned. Last one? Before he could think, his television—still muted—flashed to a breaking news banner. A photograph filled the screen. Another survivor. Dead. Police were investigating what early reports described as… …an apparent suicide. He didn’t realise he’d crushed the silver ticket in his hand until a thin line of blood slid across his palm. The newsroom never truly slept. Even at half past nine, keyboards rattled beneath fluorescent lights, phones rang without mercy, and televisions mounted on opposite walls argued over headlines no one would remember tomorrow. Julian Cross remembered all of them. Not because they mattered. Because they revealed what people wanted forgotten. He stood at the far end of the room, one hand buried in the pocket of his coat, the other holding a printed copy of the latest police report. Three pages. Twenty-seven paragraphs. Not one useful answer. Across the top, stamped in bold black ink: CAUSE OF DEATH: SUSPECTED SUICIDE He read the report again. Fourth time. The wording hadn’t changed. “The deceased exhibited signs consistent with self-inflicted injuries…” “No evidence of forced entry…” “No indication of third-party involvement…” He lowered the file. “You’ve been staring at that report for twenty minutes.” His editor’s voice carried the familiar blend of exhaustion and impatience. Julian didn’t look up. “It bothers me.” “It should. It’s tragic.” “No.” Julian tapped the paper with a finger. “This.” His editor sighed. “Not again.” “The timeline doesn’t fit.” “It never does when you’re looking for ghosts.” Julian walked to the evidence board hanging beside his desk. Newspaper clippings covered half of it. Photographs. Maps. Names connected by thin strands of black thread. At the centre… One image. A train twisted into broken steel beneath sheets of rain. Train 27. His editor folded his arms. “The case is closed.” “So was this one.” Julian pinned the newest photograph beside the others. Another face. Another survivor. Another obituary. He stepped back. One. Two. Three. Four. Four framed photographs. Four dead survivors. Only one space remained empty. His editor followed his gaze. “Don’t.” Julian said nothing. “You already know what happens if you publish another piece accusing the police of covering something up.” “I’m not accusing anyone.” “No?” His editor pointed at the board. “Then what exactly is that?” Julian studied the photographs. Each one had died differently. Different locations. Different methods. Different circumstances. Yet every file ended with the same conclusion. Suicide. He hated patterns. Patterns meant intent. Intent meant someone was making decisions. And decisions left traces. His phone buzzed. An unknown number. He almost ignored it. Almost. “…Hello?” Silence. Not static. Not a bad connection. Just breathing. Then a voice. Low. Calm. Almost gentle. “Stop counting the dead.” Julian’s grip tightened around the phone. “Who is this?” “You’ve missed one.” The line went dead. He stared at the screen. His editor frowned. “What happened?” Julian didn’t answer. Instead… He looked back at the evidence board. Four dead survivors. One empty space. His eyes drifted to the photograph waiting in the folder on his desk. The only survivor still alive. The man the country had nicknamed… The Last Survivor. Julian pulled the photograph free. On the back, he had written an address. Not printed. Handwritten. Fresh ink. He looked at his editor. “I’m going to talk to him.” His editor’s expression hardened. “You’ve requested interviews six times.” “I know.” “He’ll refuse.” Julian slipped the photograph into his coat. “Maybe.” He walked toward the exit. “Or maybe…” He opened the newsroom door. “…he’s finally ready to tell me why everyone around him keeps dying.” The door closed behind him. On Julian’s desk… The police report lay open. Near the bottom of the final page, buried between procedural notes and signatures, was a sentence no one in the newsroom noticed. Except the reader. Personal belongings recovered from the deceased included one silver railway ticket of unknown origin.