THE TRAIN THAT ARRIVES AT 7:17

John had taken the evening train home for as long as he could remember.

As a hardware engineer at CSA, a company renowned for developing advanced components for industrial machinery, his days followed a predictable pattern. He finished work, bought his ticket, boarded the train, and returned home before sunset.

It was a simple routine. A comfortable one.

And John liked it that way.

But that evening, something was wrong.

He realized it the moment he reached the ticket counter.

The elderly woman who had sold him tickets for years was missing. In her place stood a middle-aged man with an unnaturally pale face and a smile that seemed a little too calm.

John hesitated.

"Where's the old lady?" he asked.

"She's on sick leave," the man replied. His smile never wavered. "I'm filling in for her."

"Oh."

John glanced at the clock above the counter. He was running late.

"I'll take my usual seat, then."

The man lowered his eyes to the booking register. His fingers moved slowly across the page before stopping at an entry John couldn't see.

"I'm afraid all the regular seats are booked."

John frowned. "All of them? That's never happened before."

"There's only one ticket left."

The man reached beneath the counter and produced a faded piece of paper.

He slid it toward John.

John stared at the ticket.

It was old. Not merely worn from use, but old in a way that made no sense. Its yellowed edges were frayed, and the ink had faded in places. The paper looked as though it had spent decades buried in a forgotten drawer.

"What kind of ticket is this?" John asked.

"Your ticket," the man replied.

John turned it over.

The destination was printed in strange, antiquated lettering.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

He knew that name.

Or at least, some part of him insisted that he did.

It stirred something deep in his memory, a fragment of a forgotten dream or a childhood story whose ending had long since slipped away. He tried to remember where he'd heard it before, but the harder he concentrated, the further the memory seemed to retreat.

"Is something wrong?" the man asked.

John looked up.

The ticket seller was watching him.

That same pale face. That same unsettling smile.

"No," John muttered. "It's fine."

He took the ticket and stepped away from the counter.

Behind him, the man spoke once more.

"Don't miss your train, Mr. John."

John stopped.

He hadn't told the man his name.

Slowly, he turned around.

But the ticket seller was already looking down at his register, as though nothing unusual had happened.

John stood there for another second before forcing himself to walk toward the platform.

He told himself he was tired. That was all. A long day at work had left him exhausted, and exhaustion could make ordinary things seem strange.

There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything.

There had to be.

Then he heard the whistle.

A long, mournful sound drifted through the station, echoing across the platform.

John turned toward the tracks.

A locomotive emerged from the distant haze.

And the moment he saw it, he knew his ordinary evening was over.