Emma Forsberg stood on the rain-slicked platform of King’s Cross, clutching the damp train ticket in her gloved hand. The station smelled of wet stone, oil, and the faint, comforting scent of fresh bread from a bakery stall nearby. The night train to Sweden loomed before her, its sleek, midnight-blue carriages gleaming under the yellow station lamps. A whistle blew, sharp and final, as steam hissed from beneath the train like a sleeping dragon exhaling in its sleep.
Emma took a deep breath and stepped aboard.
The train was warm, almost too warm, like stepping into a snug old pub with a roaring fire. The corridors were narrow, lined with dark wood paneling, and the occasional flickering wall lamp cast strange shadows on the carpeted floor. She checked her ticket again: Compartment 12.
She slid open the door.
A man sat by the window, his sharp profile outlined against the glass. He wore a heavy, dark overcoat, and his hands were folded neatly on his lap. The air around him felt oddly still, like the hush before a thunderstorm.
“Excuse me,” Emma said, her voice polite but firm. “This is my seat.”
The man turned his head slowly. His eyes—an unsettling shade of ice-blue—met hers with a piercing stare.
“This train,” he murmured, “does not stop for the living.”
Emma blinked. A joke, surely.
“Well,” she said, smiling uncertainly as she stowed her bag, “I certainly hope it stops in Sweden.”
The man didn’t laugh. He merely turned back to the window.
The train lurched forward, and Emma settled into her seat. Outside, the city lights faded into the endless dark countryside. She tried to ignore the way her fellow passenger sat so utterly motionless, his posture too stiff, too unnatural.
After an hour of quiet, Emma couldn’t help but speak.
“You’re traveling alone?” she asked.
The man—who hadn’t moved a muscle—finally turned his gaze to her again.
“You could say that,” he said.
She frowned. “That’s a strange answer.”
“Is it?” He tilted his head slightly, studying her as if she were a puzzle he had yet to solve. “And why are you going to Sweden?”
“My mother was Swedish. I’ve always wanted to see her homeland.”
The man’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “That’s a good reason.”
The train pushed deeper into the night. The window reflected only darkness now, no lights, no towns. Just an endless black void. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks should have been soothing, but instead, it seemed hypnotic, like the heartbeat of something unseen.
Then, without warning, the train began to slow.
Emma frowned. She checked her watch. It was past midnight, far too soon for a stop. Peering out the window, she saw nothing but dense forest pressing against the tracks. No station, no lights. Just trees, tall and motionless, as if waiting.
A shadow moved in the corridor outside their compartment. Footsteps—slow, heavy—approached their door.
Emma’s pulse quickened.
The door slid open.
A tall conductor stood there, dressed in an old-fashioned uniform. His cap was low over his face, but his eyes—his eyes were completely black, like two ink stains on parchment.
“Tickets,” he said. His voice did not quite match his mouth.
Emma fumbled with hers and handed it over, trying to suppress the irrational dread curling in her stomach.
The conductor stared at her ticket for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers.
“You,” he said, almost sadly, “should not be here.”
Emma’s mouth went dry. “What do you mean?”
The man beside her—whom she now realized had not blinked once—sighed and stood.
“This train,” he said, adjusting his coat, “does not take passengers to Sweden.”
Emma felt as if the air had been knocked from her lungs. “Then where does it go?”
The conductor and the man exchanged a glance.
“You don’t remember, do you?” the conductor asked, his voice almost gentle.
Emma felt her stomach twist. “Remember what?”
The train gave a shudder, and suddenly, everything changed.
The warm glow of the lamps flickered out. The wooden panels of the compartment faded to something older, rotted. The seat beneath her became rough and frayed. Even the air smelled different—damp, earthy, like an old graveyard after rain.
Emma shot to her feet. “What’s happening?”
The man, still eerily calm, looked at her with something like sympathy.
“You died in London, Emma,” he said softly. “Three days ago.”
The words struck her like a physical blow.
“No,” she whispered. “No, I— I bought a ticket—”
The conductor nodded. “And you were given the wrong one.”
Emma’s heart pounded. Memories crashed into her like a tidal wave. A rainy street. Bright headlights. A moment of pain—so much pain. And then… nothing.
She looked down at her hands. They were fading.
“No,” she whispered. “I was going to Sweden.”
The conductor sighed. “You were. But now… you’re going somewhere else.”
Emma turned to the man beside her—the one who had known all along.
“Where does this train really go?” she whispered.
The man smiled. “Home.”
And then—
The train vanished.
The next morning, the real train to Sweden arrived in Stockholm, its carriages filled with passengers, the seats warm with the presence of those who had traveled through the night.
Compartment 12 was empty.
Emma Forsberg had never been on that train.
Not anymore.
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