The clock on Churchgate station showed 1:10 a.m. Mumbai was quiet, at least as quiet as the city ever became. Only a few tired workers and night owls waited on the empty platform. The final local train to Virar, the 1:20 last local, would arrive any minute.

Rina adjusted her backpack and checked her phone. No new messages. She had stayed late at the advertising office again, and now her only way home was this final train. A cool breeze from the Arabian Sea drifted through the station, carrying the smell of salt and rain.

A loudspeaker crackled: “The 1:20 Virar fast local is arriving on platform three.”

Rina joined a small group of passengers—barely seven or eight in total. There was a young couple whispering to each other, a middle-aged man in a delivery uniform half asleep on his feet, a college boy with headphones, and an old lady clutching a cloth bag of vegetables.

The train rolled in with a long metallic sigh. Its silver coaches gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Rina stepped inside the ladies’ compartment and found a window seat. The other passengers spread across the nearby coaches. The doors slid shut with a hiss.

The train moved smoothly at first. The city lights of south Mumbai slipped by, a blur of yellow and orange. Normally the train would stop at Marine Lines after just two minutes. But tonight it sped straight past the platform without even slowing.

Rina frowned. Maybe the driver was making up time? But again, Charni Road, Grant Road, Mumbai Central—each station flashed past like a quick film reel. No stop. Not even a horn.

A tall man in a black jacket entered from the next coach, confusion on his face. “Did the train skip Marine Lines?” he asked.

“Yes,” Rina said. “And the next three stations.”

The man checked his watch. “That’s not possible. They never skip all stops.”

The old lady from the opposite seat muttered a prayer under her breath.

Outside the window the familiar cityscape began to change. The clusters of high-rise buildings gave way to dark warehouses and endless tracks glinting in moonlight. Rina looked for signs or signals—anything to mark the next station. Nothing.

The lights inside the coach flickered. The train’s usual rattling hum shifted to a low, deep sound, like a faraway drum.

The college boy pulled off his headphones. “Why does it sound different?” he asked no one in particular.

The delivery man tried the emergency chain, but when he yanked it, nothing happened. No alarm. No jerk of brakes.

Panic started to bubble among the passengers. They gathered in Rina’s compartment because it felt safer together.

After what felt like half an hour, a faint glow appeared ahead. A station. Everyone exhaled with relief.

But when the train slowed, they saw the signboard. The name was written in a language none of them could read—sharp, curling letters that did not belong to Hindi, Marathi, or English. The platform itself looked old and empty. Lanterns swung gently though there was no wind. No people. No sound.

The doors stayed closed. The train rolled forward again, leaving the ghostly platform behind.

The young couple whispered nervously. “Where are we?” the woman asked.

“No idea,” Rina said. Her voice shook.

The tall man decided to reach the driver’s cabin. “We must talk to him,” he said.

He slid open the inter-coach door and disappeared. Minutes passed. He didn’t return.

Rina followed with the delivery man and the college boy. They moved through three empty coaches, each silent as a grave. Finally they reached the driver’s cabin.

It was empty.

The control panel glowed softly, levers moving on their own as if guided by invisible hands. Through the front window the tracks stretched endlessly into darkness.

The delivery man swore under his breath. “No driver. How can the train run without a driver?”

Rina’s chest tightened. “Let’s go back,” she whispered.

When they returned to their compartment, the old lady and the young couple were gone.

Only Rina, the delivery man, and the college boy remained. Fear pressed on them like a heavy blanket.

Then a soft sound drifted through the coach—a voice, low and calm. It seemed to come from the train itself.

“Stay seated. The journey is not over.”

They spun around. No one was there.

“What do you mean?” Rina shouted into the empty air. “Where are the others? Where are we going?”

The voice replied, almost kindly: “Home. The home between places.”

The delivery man clutched the seat. “This is some nightmare.”

The lights flickered again, and when they steadied, the college boy had vanished.

Only Rina and the delivery man remained. Hours seemed to pass. Outside, the world was no longer city or countryside—just a shifting blur of stars and dark silver shapes. Sometimes Rina thought she saw shadows running alongside the train, but when she looked hard they melted into the night.

The delivery man began to speak of his family, of his little daughter waiting at home. “I just wanted to reach Virar,” he whispered, tears in his eyes.

Rina held his hand. “We’ll get out. We have to.”

But she wasn’t sure.

At last the train slowed again. A small platform appeared, glowing faintly blue. A single signboard stood in the middle. This time the letters formed clear words:

“LAST STOP – CHOOSE YOUR PATH.”

The doors opened with a soft hiss.

A staircase of pale light rose from the platform, reaching into the star-filled sky. Beside it, a dark tunnel stretched forward.

The delivery man looked at Rina, terrified. “What is this?”

The calm voice returned. “Every traveler chooses. Upward or forward. The ride ends when the choice is made.”

Rina felt a strange peace wash over her. She thought of her long nights, the endless rush of deadlines, the loneliness of city life. The staircase glowed like morning sunlight.

But she also thought of her parents, of the life still waiting for her.

“I’m going forward,” she told herself.

The delivery man stared at the staircase, tears on his face. “I’m going up,” he said softly. Without another word, he stepped onto the glowing steps. Light surrounded him, and he vanished.

Rina turned toward the dark tunnel.

The doors closed and the train began to move again. The tunnel’s darkness slowly brightened until she saw the familiar yellow lamps of Churchgate station.

With a sudden jolt, the train stopped. Rina stumbled out onto the platform.

It was 1:19 a.m.—one minute before she had boarded.

The station looked exactly as it had earlier: sleepy guards, a few passengers, the smell of salt. Of the other travelers, there was no sign.

A loudspeaker announced, “The 1:20 Virar fast local is arriving on platform three.”

Rina turned to look at the train she had just left. It was gone.

In its place, a fresh local slid into the platform, crowded with ordinary late-night commuters.

Heart pounding, Rina walked to the exit. Her phone buzzed with a message from her mother: “Are you on the last train? Come home safe.”

She typed a quick reply—“On my way.”

But as she slipped the phone into her pocket, she noticed a faint glow on her wrist where the train’s metal pole had brushed her skin. A tiny mark shaped like a stair shone for a second, then faded.

Outside, Mumbai’s night air smelled of salt and rain again, exactly as before. Yet Rina knew something had changed.

Some journeys, she thought, never truly end.