Chapter 20: A Train to Somewhere

The platform was unusually empty. Ren stood near the edge, the dim hum of the city blending with the gentle rattle of a train waiting on the track. There were no bustling crowds, no announcements blaring overhead—just the quiet stillness of an evening that felt like it had drifted between two moments, waiting to decide which one it belonged to.

Ren exhaled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He didn’t know why he was here. His legs had carried him to the station without much thought, as if the train had called to him—offering not a destination, but a chance to pause, to reset without rewinding.

In his pocket, his watch ticked steadily, the sound muffled but reassuring.

A distant hiss of brakes made Ren glance down the platform. The train doors were open, spilling soft yellow light onto the ground. It was one of the older lines, the kind that didn’t run on tight schedules or have sleek, modern designs. This train was slow, deliberate—made for people who weren’t in a hurry to get anywhere.

Without thinking, Ren stepped inside.

The car was nearly empty, save for a few passengers scattered across the seats—an elderly couple murmuring softly to each other, a man with headphones lost in his own world, and a young woman sketching quietly in a notebook. The warm hum of the train’s engine filled the space, steady and rhythmic, like a lullaby meant to ease the restless.

Ren slid into a seat by the window, resting his head against the cool glass. The train lurched forward, and the lights of the city blurred into streaks of color as they pulled away from the platform.

He closed his eyes, letting the motion of the train rock him gently. There was something soothing about the way the world slipped by—unchangeable, distant. For once, he didn’t feel the urge to control it.

“Long day?”

Ren opened his eyes to find the young woman from earlier sitting across the aisle, her notebook balanced on her knees. She had dark hair tucked under a knitted beanie, and the corner of her mouth quirked into a small, curious smile.

“Something like that,” Ren replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

She nodded knowingly, her pencil still moving across the page. “Train rides are good for days like that. Helps you breathe, I think.”

Ren chuckled softly. “Is that what you do? Ride trains to catch your breath?”

The girl smiled, glancing down at her drawing. “Something like that. I guess I just like seeing the world move without me having to chase it.”

Ren leaned forward, curious despite himself. “What are you drawing?”

She turned the notebook toward him, revealing a simple but elegant sketch of the train car. The lines were soft and fluid, as if she’d captured not just the shape of the space, but the feeling of it—the quiet hum, the weightlessness of being in transit.

“That’s really good,” Ren said, genuinely impressed.

“Thanks,” she replied, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “I like drawing places that feel... in-between. Like this train. It’s not about where we’re going—it’s just about being here.”

Ren smiled, something warm unfolding in his chest. “I like that.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, the train rocking gently beneath them. The lights inside flickered briefly as they passed through a tunnel, and when the train emerged on the other side, the city had fallen away, replaced by fields shrouded in mist.

Ren pressed his forehead against the glass, watching as the world slipped by—trees, distant houses, the occasional glimmer of a river winding through the dark. He felt weightless, as if time had loosened its grip, allowing him to simply exist without expectations.

The girl glanced at him from across the aisle. “Do you ever feel like you’re stuck between places?”

Ren blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

She tapped her pencil against the edge of her notebook, her expression thoughtful. “Like... you’re not really where you were, but you’re not quite where you want to be yet, either. Just... somewhere in between.”

Ren considered her words, turning them over in his mind. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I know exactly what that feels like.”

The girl smiled, as if she’d expected that answer. “It’s not a bad place to be, you know. It just means you’re still moving.”

Ren chuckled softly. “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

She laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Maybe. Or maybe trains just make people philosophical.”

The conversation lulled, but it wasn’t awkward. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the hum of the train and the faint tap of rain against the windows. Ren felt lighter somehow, as if the weight of all the things he hadn’t figured out no longer pressed so heavily on his chest.

The train began to slow, the lights flickering again as they approached the next station. Ren glanced at the girl, wondering if she’d get off here, but she gave no indication of moving.

Instead, she looked at him with a curious expression. “Do you ever wish you could stop the train? Just... stay in this moment a little longer?”

Ren smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. “Yeah. But that’s not how trains work, is it?”

The girl shook her head, her gaze soft. “Nope. Trains keep going. That’s what makes them beautiful.”

The train came to a halt, and a few passengers shuffled off, their footsteps soft against the platform. The doors slid closed with a quiet hiss, and the train lurched forward again, carrying them deeper into the night.

Ren leaned back in his seat, his heart steady for the first time in a while. He didn’t know where the train was going, and for once, he didn’t need to. All that mattered was the journey—this strange, quiet moment in between destinations.

The girl across the aisle gave him a small, knowing smile, as if she understood exactly what he was thinking. “Whatever you’re looking for,” she said softly, “I hope you find it.”

Ren nodded, feeling the truth of her words settle deep within him. “Thanks,” he whispered. “You too.”

As the train rolled on, Ren closed his eyes, listening to the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the track. The steady ticking of his watch blended with the sound, a quiet reminder that time didn’t need to be chased—it only needed to be lived.