last stop.

| boarding |

They say the Bound Line Express has no beginning and no end. 

It weaves through realms like a long-forgotten tale, its existence whispered only by those who dared to remember it—those who've felt its chill in their bones. The train emerges from nowhere, a specter bound by time's invisible thread, sliding through the night with barely a sound, yet carrying with it a weight that makes hearts tremble.

It arrives only at the peculiar hour, precisely 6:06, when the heartbeat of the world stills for a fleeting moment, when love lies most vulnerable—open, exposed. The train seems to slip out from the cracks of reality, like a wound torn into the fabric of the world, a great shadow bleeding from the void. The air chills before it, a coldness that creeps under the skin and tightens around the lungs.

On this night, there's no moon. The sky is a black canvas, the stars mere distant pinpricks too far to be of comfort. The wind barely whispers, as if afraid to acknowledge what is about to appear. The tracks, ancient and rusted, hum before the Bound Line's arrival, a low vibration that feels less like sound and more like a warning.

When the train arrives, it comes with a hiss—steam pouring from nowhere, casting fleeting shadows against the cobblestones. Its sleek, blackened surface reflects nothing, swallowing all light that dares to touch it. The windows are dark, smudged with the impressions of things unseen, and the doors open with a groan, as if the very act is reluctant, as if the train itself knows what it carries is not meant for this world.

Inside, the train is a labyrinth of echoes. 

The air smells faintly of dust and decay, as though it has sat dormant for centuries, untouched by time or life. The floors creak underfoot, but the sound vanishes as quickly as it comes, swallowed by the eerie silence that permeates the space. Lamps flicker weakly, casting shadows that dance along the walls in ways they shouldn't. Shadows that seem to shift even when no one moves.

But the most unsettling part of the Bound Line is its inhabitants—if they can be called that.

We, the ticket collectors are the first to greet any passenger brave enough to board. 

Our presence may be unnerving, silent as ghosts, dressed in uniforms that might have once been crisp but now hang loosely, threadbare, and dull with age. We admit, our faces are obscured beneath brimmed hats, casting long shadows that swallow our long-gone features. Our eyes—if we still have them—are hidden behind reflective lenses, and our hands, gloved in black, move with practice as we take the ticket from the quivering hands of each passenger.

We don't speak. We don't need to. The air around us hums with an unspoken understanding.

There are rules here. Rules that must be followed, though no one truly knows who first wrote them. This train lives by them, as much a prisoner as those who ride it.

Do not speak until spoken to. The train has ears, and the wrong words will rouse what shouldn't be woken.

Never ask for your destination. The Bound Line knows where to take you, and questioning it will only invite doubt—doubt that the train feeds on.

Avoid looking out. Whatever's going on in the outside universe is not your business. Not anymore.

The ticket you hold is your heart. Lose it, and you'll wander forever between worlds, a soul without a home.

At 12:01 AM, all light will fade. Remain still. Do not move. If you do, you will become one of the shadows.

Make tiny talks with the collectors. We are lonely and would love a small talk. But I suggest,  never overshare. The young collectors would love to take your place.

One journey, one chance. The Bound Line doesn't offer return tickets.

Follow them and you will reach your soulmate in one piece. 

I cannot state what happens when you break these rules. But the hushed whispers of former passengers would tell you that breaking even one leads to a fate worse than death—an existence where time no longer moves, where the world passes by, but you are frozen in the darkness, forgotten even by yourself.

Ah! What a lovely moonless night it is.

The gift of a ticket is now yours. Simply pay the price with a teardrop or with a heartbeat.

Dear passenger, you. Bound Line has now arrived at your station.

Hope you reach where you belong.

- The Chief Conductor, Bound Line Express.