❝In the tale of fate, the red string connects us all, but not every thread leads to a soulmate.❞
In a world where love is entwined with fate, an abandoned conductor escapes the confines of an unnatural train into a universe he's forgotten.
As he nav...
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The fog seeped into the escaped conductor's mind, as he lay on his back, writhing in pain, filling the cracks that had formed over the centuries. It played tricks on him, wrapping his thoughts in delicate lies, urging him to turn back.
It's not safe here.
The voice was gentle, familiar.
The train is your home now. Return, and you'll be safe again.
He paused, the idea almost comforting. His chest tightened with something he couldn't name, something that chewed at him. The Bound Line had been his prison, but it had also been the only thing he knew. The other conductors, though cold and lifeless, were constants, unchanging in their dead-eyed routine. The passengers—they came and went, yes—but they too were predictable, desperate mortals, stepping into the unknown with wide eyes and hopeful hearts.
But out here, in the swirling mist, everything was different. He was exposed, vulnerable. Fear crept up his spine, an old, forgotten sensation. His instincts screamed at him to turn back. To step into the dark corridor of the train and let it swallow him whole again.
You belong there, the fog whispered.
You'll never survive out here.
His legs quivered, ready to give in. Maybe I should go back, he thought. Maybe I never should have left. His eyes flicked back toward the train, half expecting to see the familiar gleam of its dark, rusted body waiting for him to return. But instead, the fog thickened, and for a moment, he couldn't see anything.
Then, something cracked open inside him.
He cried out, a low, guttural sound that rose from his chest. His hand clutched his face, tears spilling down, hot and salty. The first real tears he had shed in centuries. The pain, the confusion, the fear—it all hit him at once, and his legs buckled beneath him. His hands hit the ground, gasping for air, choking on the unfamiliar weight of his own emotions.
What have I done? His mind was a whirlpool, dragging him down into a spiraling abyss of terror. I should've stayed. I should've—
Suddenly, the low rumble of train wheels broke through the silence. His heart skipped a beat. The fog shifted, and from the corner of his vision, the headlights of the Bound Line Express burst through, charging toward him with terrifying speed. His breath hitched. His body froze in place.
The train was coming for him.
He screamed, his voice tearing through the fog as he scrambled backward, trying to escape the blinding lights that now bore down on him. The sound of the train's whistle pierced the air, shrill and relentless. It was all going to end right here, right now.
And then—nothing.
The train vanished. The fog dissolved.
He blinked, gasping for breath, his heart racing in his chest. The world around him suddenly snapped into focus. There was no train, no screeching wheels, no blinding headlights. Only the quiet clatter of a distant city and the cool air against his skin.
He had really escaped.
He found himself lying on cold gravel, his fingers scraping against the rough surface of a train track. He could hear the hum of the world around him now—the distant murmur of life, the rush of cars, the far-off voices of people who had no idea where he had come from.
Shakily, he rose to his knees, his eyes scanning the platform before him. A neon sign flickered above, casting a pale glow over the scene. The words were simple, ordinary, nothing like the haunting symbols from the Bound Line.
Asagaya Station it read.
He turned his head, and there, in bold red digits on a digital clock, the time read:
3:33 AM.
A few scattered figures stood at the platform, wrapped in coats, their faces turned away from him, whispering quietly amongst themselves. They were staring. Judging. One man frowned at him as if he were some drunkard who had thrown himself on the tracks in a moment of frenzy.
The conductor's breath came in ragged gasps. He tried to rise to his feet, but his body trembled. His clothes were still the same—the stiff, black uniform of a Bound Line conductor. The brass buttons glinted faintly in the dim light. His gloves were stained, worn from centuries of service, yet they felt foreign to him now.
His throat tightened as he tried to speak, but the words caught in his mouth. He looked down at his hands, stained with dirt from the gravel. He had escaped, but who was he now? He didn't remember his past. He still didn't remember his name.
Tears welled up in his eyes once more, but this time he didn't hold them back. He wept openly, his sobs shaking his body as he crouched there on the tracks, lost and alone. He had broken free of the Bound Line, but his memories were still fractured, scattered like the pieces of a broken mirror.
His cries echoed across the nearly empty platform, mixing with the sounds of the distant city. No one came to help him. No one reached out a hand. They simply stared, their eyes filled with pity and disdain, watching as he tried to make sense of the life he had long forgotten.
And for the first time in centuries, he was no longer bound to the train.
