The Last Train
A tired commuter, an empty carriage, and a stranger who knows a little too much.
The 11:52 was always empty, which is why Awul liked it. No one to make small talk with. No one to watch her eat cold noodles out of a container. Just the hum of the rails and the city sliding past like a screensaver.
So when the old man sat down directly across from her, in a carriage with forty empty seats, she noticed.
He wore a brown coat, far too warm for the weather, and held a paper bag on his lap like it was something alive. He didn’t look at his phone. He didn’t look out the window. He looked at her.
“You’re getting off at Pasar Seni,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. Awul’s chopsticks stopped halfway to her mouth.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
“Not yet.” He smiled, and it was a kind smile, which somehow made it worse. “But you will get off at Pasar Seni. And when you do, you’ll see a blue umbrella on the platform. Don’t pick it up.”
Awul did what any reasonable person would do. She put her earphones in and pretended to listen to music. She was not listening to music. She was listening to her heartbeat, which had gotten very loud.
Three stops later, the old man stood, nodded at her politely, and stepped out at Masjid Jamek. The doors closed. The train moved on. And Awul let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
Weird night, she thought. Just a weird night.
The train slowed. Next station: Pasar Seni.
She stepped onto the platform. It was empty, except for one thing.
A blue umbrella, leaning against a pillar. Perfectly dry, even though it had been raining all evening.
Your move
Awul stares at the umbrella. Her train home is the last one tonight. What would you do?
Her fingers brush the handle. It is warm, like someone was holding it a second ago. Somewhere behind her, very softly, a paper bag rustles.
She walks past without looking. Halfway to the stairs she hears it: the click of an umbrella opening. Nobody is there when she turns around.
She raises her phone. On the screen, the pillar is there. The platform is there. The umbrella is not.
What Awul actually did was nothing at all. She stood there for a long time, long enough that the platform lights hummed and flickered, long enough to feel silly.
Then she laughed, turned around, and took the stairs two at a time.
At the top, her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.
Good choice. See you tomorrow on the 11:52.
She didn’t take the train the next night.
But the night after that, she did. And there he was, in the same seat, with the same paper bag. Only this time, he’d brought two cups of tea.
“Sit,” he said. “I’ll explain everything.”
And for the first time in a long time, Awul was glad the 11:52 wasn’t empty.