The Last Arrival.

He folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into his coat pocket. And exhaled, watching his breath dissolve into the damp night air. The station was deserted—except for this one dog, whose amber eyes reflected something familiar, something almost human. It cocked its head, as if urging him to move, to decide.

He reached down and stroked its coarse fur, feeling the warmth beneath his trembling fingers. “You’re the only one left to listen, huh?” he muttered. The dog’s tail thumped once against the concrete, then stilled.

A distant whistle echoed through the emptiness. It was not a train—just the wind playing tricks on his ears. He had been waiting for a train that no longer came, for someone who no longer existed, for a past that refused to be rewritten.

He pulled the letter out again. The ink was faded, but the words were carved into his mind.

You must come. I don’t have much time left.

The date on the letter was yesterday.

A shiver ran through him and that was not from the cold. He had arrived too late. He had hesitated for too long, trapped in indecision. A dull ache spread through his chest. Maybe, he had missed his chance—not to ask for forgiveness, not to explain, but simply to be there.

The dog let out a low whimper, breaking the silence. The man looked down at it, and for the first time, he noticed the collar around its neck. A rusted tag dangled from it, catching the dim station light. He squinted and traced the engraved letters with his thumb.

His own name stared back at him.

The world around him seemed to contract. The platform blurred at the edges, the drizzle fading into an eerie stillness. He reached for the dog again, but his hand passed through its body like mist.

His breath caught. He looked down at himself—really looked this time. His coat, once damp, was now dry and untouched by the rain. His reflection in a puddle by his feet was faint, almost transparent.

The final train hadn’t just left. It had taken him with it.

He wasn’t waiting. He had already arrived.