The Last Train to Tomorrow
The rain fell on the city like a million tiny goodbyes, blurring the neon signs into watercolors of pink and blue. You stood under a sputtering bus stop awning, not waiting for a bus, but simply existing in the quiet hum of 3 a.m. Life felt like this—a damp, endless wait for something that was never coming. That's when you heard it. Not the rumble of a subway or the clatter of a streetcar, but a sound from a different time: the lonely, mournful whistle of a steam engine. Down the tracks, where no train had run in fifty years, a single, brilliant light cut through the gloom.
An impossible train slid to a halt before you, its obsidian-black carriages gleaming under the streetlights. Steam hissed from its pistons, smelling of ozone and forgotten memories. Gold letters on the lead car read: The Last Train to Tomorrow. The doors slid open with a whisper, revealing an interior of polished wood and velvet seats, empty and waiting. A Conductor in a crisp, dark uniform tipped his cap. 'Boarding for a better life,' he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. 'Last call.' This was insane. But staying felt even crazier.
An impossible train slid to a halt before you, its obsidian-black carriages gleaming under the streetlights. Steam hissed from its pistons, smelling of ozone and forgotten memories. Gold letters on the lead car read: The Last Train to Tomorrow. The doors slid open with a whisper, revealing an interior of polished wood and velvet seats, empty and waiting. A Conductor in a crisp, dark uniform tipped his cap. 'Boarding for a better life,' he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. 'Last call.' This was insane. But staying felt even crazier.