last stop.

escape

The Bound Line rattled along its tracks, the rhythmic clanging echoing in the conductor's mind like a pulse. He stood in his usual spot, by the door of the second carriage, staring blankly at the rows of passengers seated in silence. His gloved hands clasped the brim of his hat, an instinctive habit by now. His body moved without thought, a puppet on invisible strings. But inside, something had begun to shift.

Each night, the same passengers, the same ritual. Each night, he collected their tickets without question. But lately, every time his fingers brushed against the cold slips of paper, his chest tightened in a way it never had before. His hand would twitch. His mouth would part, as though some part of him—a part he'd forgotten—was trying to speak. Trying to warn them.

Don't board the train.
It's not what you think.
Your soulmate will find you when the time is right.

But the words never left his lips. He swallowed them down, as if they were just another piece of the train's endless machinery. His fellow conductors would glance at him with their hollow eyes, their blank faces turning toward him as though sensing the tremor within him. And he would shut his mouth again, his body locking into place, trapped by fear.

Still, it lingered—this new sensation, this strange awareness that gnawed at the edges of his mind. It made him feel alive in a way he hadn't for centuries, though he wished it didn't. Because with each passing night, the train felt less like a part of him and more like a cage, a cage he had willingly stepped into all those years ago.

The flashes of his past had grown sharper—scenes of a life before the Bound Line, of running, of fighting, of the cold winter wind on his face. He couldn't make sense of them, but they made him ache. For the first time in centuries, he ached.

One night, as he stood by the window, watching the fog swirl past, he felt it—an overwhelming need to leave. To step off the Bound Line, just once, just for a moment. His hand pressed against the glass, the cold seeping into his bones. The passengers around him were silent, their eyes glazed, unaware of the conductor's inner turmoil.

The desire to escape was so strong it frightened him. But how? The rules of the train had been etched into his soul, and the consequences of breaking them...he had seen what happened to those who disobeyed. The shadows between the carriages were not empty. They waited for rule-breakers, for those who dared to defy the Bound Line.

And yet, the thought of staying forever, of becoming like the other conductors—emotionless, lifeless—was worse. So much worse.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

That first night, he tried something simple. He loosened his gloves, just a little, when no one was looking. His hands felt raw and exposed beneath the fabric, but it was a tiny act of rebellion, a test to see if the Bound Line noticed. When nothing happened, he tried more. He wandered further down the train, past the third carriage, past the places he was supposed to stay. He stopped in front of the door that led to the platform.

His heart raced. Escape. Just for a moment.

But when he reached for the door handle, his hand froze. The door was ice cold. His fellow conductors were behind him, their eyes invisible beneath their hats, but he felt their gaze. He hesitated, then let his hand drop back to his side.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

The next night, he tried again. This time, he waited until the passengers were settled, when the train was passing through a stretch of endless darkness. He slipped into the narrow corridor between the carriages, where the shadows twisted and writhed like living things. His breath hitched as he stood there, staring at the door that led to freedom.

The shadows whispered around him, curling at his feet. He stepped forward, his hand shaking as it reached for the handle. The cold bit into his skin, but he forced himself to turn it. Just a crack. Just enough to feel the air from the outside world.

The door creaked open, and a blast of cold air hit him, so sharp it nearly knocked him back. The wind howled, and for a moment, he could hear the distant echo of the city—voices, cars, life beyond the train. His breath caught in his throat. He had almost forgotten what it sounded like.

Then, without warning, the shadows lunged.

They wrapped around his legs, pulling him back, their grip like ice on his skin. He gasped, stumbling, his hands flying to the doorframe as he tried to keep himself from being dragged into the depths between the carriages. But the shadows were strong, stronger than he remembered. Panic surged through him as they coiled around his arms, squeezing tighter, threatening to tear him apart.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice barely audible over the roar of the wind. His body trembled, his heart pounding as he struggled against the invisible force pulling him back. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he thought he would lose the fight. That he would be consumed by the very train he had once boarded without question.

But then, with one final burst of strength, he wrenched his arm free and slammed the door shut. The shadows recoiled, hissing as they disappeared back into the dark. He collapsed against the wall, gasping for breath, his body shaking from the effort.

His leg throbbed painfully where the shadows had gripped him, and when he looked down, he saw the deep bruises forming beneath his uniform. His hands shook as he pressed them against the cold metal of the train. He had done it. He had almost escaped. Almost.

But the Bound Line would not let him go so easily.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

The next night, he tried again. And again. Each time, it was the same—the shadows waiting, the cold creeping into his bones, the other conductors watching him with those empty, soulless eyes. But with each attempt, something inside him changed.

The more he tried, the more his emotions began to surface. He felt fear—raw, primal fear—in a way he hadn't for centuries. The other conductors, once familiar, now terrified him. They moved like ghosts, their eyes hidden, their faces expressionless. And yet, he knew they were watching him. They knew.

And each time a new passenger boarded, he could feel the words rising in his throat, desperate to escape.

Don't board the train. Don't make the same mistake.

But still, he remained silent.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Then, one night, he succeeded.

It was late, and the Bound Line had just left another station. The fog was thick, the air colder than usual, the passengers quiet. He stood by the door, staring out at the swirling mist. His leg still ached from his last attempt, but tonight felt different. 

The train felt slower. The shadows quieter.

He didn't hesitate this time. He reached for the door, threw it open, and leaped.

The fall was shorter than he expected, the ground hard beneath him as he hit the pavement with a sickening thud. Pain shot through his body, but he didn't care. He had escaped.

For the first time in centuries, he was off the Bound Line.

But as he lay there, gasping for breath, his vision swimming, he realized something was terribly wrong. His leg was bleeding, the shadows had torn deep into his flesh. And as he looked up, the fog began to close in around him, swallowing the world in darkness.

The headlights of the train were charging towards him.

He had escaped. But at what cost?