The Last Train

The platform empties at eleven. A woman in a red coat lingers by the bench, pretending to read her phone. She's done this before—stayed past her stop, watched the city thin out through scratched windows. The conductor announces final departure. She doesn't move. Some journeys aren't about arriving. They're about the quiet between stations, the blur of lit windows, the permission to be nowhere for a while. The train doesn't ask where you're going. It only asks that you stay seated. She boards at the last moment. Takes the same seat she always does, facing backward. The city slides away like a secret she's keeping from herself. By the time she reaches the end of the line, she'll know what question she's been avoiding. Until then, the rails hum their patient lullaby.