The train arrived at 4:44 p.m.
Always the same time. Always the same single passenger.

She stepped off the last car each Thursday evening dressed in quiet elegance: long coat, gloves, and a suitcase that looked like it belonged in another century. Her presence made the air feel still, like someone had pressed pause on the world.

No one ever saw her buy a ticket. She never spoke to the station staff. Just walked, like she had somewhere important to be — and more time to get there than anyone else alive.

People in town noticed patterns. She visited the same places, in the same order. The abandoned flower shop. The broken swing in the park. The shuttered bookstore where no one had worked in decades.

It was like she was revisiting a memory that no one else remembered.

One afternoon, I followed her.

I was fourteen, restless, and tired of hearing rumors. I wanted the truth. So I kept my distance, trailing her from the platform to the park, through quiet alleyways and cracked sidewalks only the old maps still marked.

She moved deliberately, like walking through a memory.

At 5:06 p.m., just one minute before the train left, she turned suddenly and looked straight at me.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. Her voice was calm, like water slipping over stone. “Not yet.”

I froze. “Who are you?”

She looked at me for a long moment — eyes flickering like candlelight — and then:
“You’ll find out in twenty years.”

The train whistle cut through the air. She turned, stepped aboard, and vanished behind the door. I rushed after her, but when I reached the car, it was empty.

No sign of her.

Not even the conductor had seen her.

I tried to forget. I couldn’t. , hoping, waiting. But she didn’t return.

But never forget, here I came every Thursday ,waiting for he,r countingthe  days

Until yesterday.

She stepped off the train like no time had passed. Silver threads kissed her hair, but the warmth in her eyes was the same.. She looked older.

And this time, when she passed me, she smiled.

“You’re ready,” she said, and handed me something.
A folded piece of paper, yellowed with age.

I opened it.

It was a schedule. A map.
Dates I hadn’t lived yet.
Places I hadn’t been.
And at the top, written in looping script:

"For the next passenger."

And with a smile, she stepped back into the fading glow.

I followed her through streets bathed in gold, heart pounding with questions I couldn’t silence. As we paused beneath the old clock tower, I caught up and said, breathless:

“But the twenty years… they haven’t passed yet.”

She turned slowly, her eyes catching the last light like the sun itself was caught inside them — radiant, soft, impossible to look away from.

And she said,
“Time is not a river, but a spiral.
You don’t wait for years to pass —
You carry them with you, already lived, already to come, and I knew you’re read,y so I came for you because I knew, without doubt, that you’re the chosen.”

Her voice was like a warm breeze, folding around me, bending the moments into something new—something endless.

I wanted to ask more, but the world tilted, and the golden hour slipped away, leaving only the trace of her smile glowing in the dusk.

The world held its breath once more,
and I knew —
Some journeys begin only when the light fades just right.

I stood silent, breathless, feeling the weight and wonder of everything she’d just revealed.

The sun slipped low, and with a soft smile, she stepped back into the fading light —
a promise and a beginning all at once.

And her, I knew that I was the next. It’s something I belong to, mysterious things like m,e and I found myself like her, just living my cosy life until I find the next passenger