Rain fell in thin, silver threads from the sky as Elias stepped onto the platform. It was close to midnight, and nothing moved except the flicker of a tired streetlamp. The last train would arrive soon — or it wouldn't. On this line, nothing was ever certain.
He pulled his coat tighter around him. In his pocket lay the letter, its paper softened from being read too many times. Three lines, nothing more:
"Come back.
It isn't too late.
— M."
Elias didn't know why he had actually come. Maybe hope. Maybe guilt. Maybe because some words weigh more than entire years.
The wind carried the distant rumble of an approaching train. Metal shrieked, light cut through the darkness, and finally the train rolled in — slower, as if it doubted stopping here itself.
The doors opened with a hiss.
Inside, hardly anyone sat. An elderly woman staring out the window. A man with his eyes closed. And at the far end — a figure Elias recognized before he even saw her face.
Mara.
She looked up as he came closer. Her eyes seemed tired, but warm — like before. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then she smiled faintly.
"You came."
Elias sat down. The train jerked forward, moving again. "I wasn't sure if I should."
"You rarely do what you should."
He laughed quietly. "And you rarely write letters."
Silence settled between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Outside, lights slipped past like memories you couldn't hold onto.
"Why now?" he finally asked.
Mara looked ahead. "Because time is strange. You always think you have enough of it. And suddenly you realize — you were only borrowing it."
Elias felt something tighten in his chest. "Is it too late?"
She shook her head. "As long as you're still on your way — no."
The train carried on through the night, and somewhere between stations, between regret and forgiveness, they began the conversation they should have had years ago.
And maybe that was the purpose of the last train:
Not to bring someone home —
but to show them where home could still be.