THE TRACK BENEATH

“When you sit in a train, you travel smoothly and swiftly to your destination. You pause at many stops, where people around you get on and off, until you reach the final stop and it’s time to get off the train yourself,” murmured Charlie, wondering what the words he had read meant. But what if, on your journey, the final stop isn’t where you expect? What if the track beneath you leads somewhere different, somewhere unknown?

Charlie climbed aboard the 12:42 train, enjoying the fact that he had Compartment 12 entirely to himself. No, not just compartment 12. The whole train, except for him, was empty. Yet through his enjoyment, questions crowded his mind. Why, why was he the only person who decided to go on a train at 12 o’clock midnight, why was he the only person to want to know who drives the trains? Why was he, only a young 12-year old boy, destined to experience this curiosity?

He wandered down the corridor, expecting to find someone—anyone. A conductor, a fellow

passenger, someone to explain why the train was so empty. The silence felt like a weight,

pressing against him as he peered into each compartment, but the seats were empty. There was no one. Only shadows and the soft hum of the train’s movement, filling the space where answers should be. The eerie silence enveloped him, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks.

So he quietly returned to his seat in Compartment 12 and looked out the window into the dark, foggy night, and saw fireflies swirling in the mist. Their soft, amber light illuminated the

darkness, each pulse of light dancing on the edge, casting halos of light. Their company, even through the windows, brought Charlie great comfort.

He remembered the day people from the orphanage came to inform him of the death of his

parents. They spoke gently, perhaps thinking they could calm him. As if soft words could fill the void that had opened in Charlie’s heart. He had no relatives, no one to care for him, except the orphanage. Sitting on a hard plastic seat on the train, his eyes watered with salty tears, and he wished with all his heart to see his parents again.

He hadn’t even been able to say goodbye.

Turning his attention back to the fireflies, Charlie made up his mind to concentrate on his happy memories. They were now crossing a moor, vast and barren. Suddenly the train came to a rough halt, the train doors sliding open with a hiss, revealing the dark, barren stretch of land outside.

Charlie poked his head out the doors. There was no platform, no station, nothing. Why had they stopped here, of all places, here in the middle of nowhere? He couldn’t see any tree for miles around, or any bushes. The fireflies had vanished, and the night was so misty that no stars brightened the sky.

Without the presence of the fireflies, Charlie felt strangely alone, tension building in his chest. The train’s abrupt stop made him feel nauseous, and he felt a great need to know what was going on.

He had only boarded this train to ask someone who drove the train. Why, oh why had he picked this train, the very last train? Suppose it had broken down, would he ever be able to find his way back home- and yet, he had never been able to call any place home since the death of his parents.

A sudden movement interrupted his thoughts, unsettling him, but even through his discomfort, he felt a certain sense of promise. A vague feeling, but nonetheless keeping him steady. Through the mist, he saw a hooded figure, standing far away. Charlie squinted, when suddenly the figure came closer,

And closer,

And closer.

Now truly terrified, Charlie withdrew his head from the door and sat stock-still, unable to move as the dark figure approached, and climbed aboard the very compartment Charlie sat in, taking a seat on the bench opposite Charlie. As the figure sat down, the train doors clamped shut, and it began to move as slow as a turtle. What was going on? Charlie forced himself to look at the cloaked figure, its face hidden in shadow. He waited, trembling, for it to move.

The figure didn’t move.

Yet.

When once again, the train came to a halt, the doors slid open, and mist slowly filled the

compartment. Charlie once again peered out the door, and once again saw a dark, barren stretch of land. Were more hooded figures to get on?

No such thing happened. Instead, the figure opposite Charlie stood up, pushed back its hood, and offered Charlie its hand. The hand was bony and unyielding, yet strangely inviting. Even as the figure extended its hand, Charlie felt not fear, but a quiet acceptance—like he had always known this moment would come.

Charlie's breath caught in his throat, and his heart pounded in his chest. He glanced once more at the lifeless world outside the train window. The fog, the mist, the absence of any living soul...

It hit him then, with a sudden clarity.

He wasn’t on any ordinary train. This was the train of life. And he was not heading toward any

station—no, this was the final stop. There had been a train crash, yet he had never felt it, the

transition between life and death smooth and calm. The words he had read earlier now made complete sense.

‘When you sit in a train, you travel smoothly and swiftly to your destination. You pause at

many stops, where people around you get on and of , until you reach the final stop and it’s

time to get of the train yourself.’

This was his train, and the hooded figure was none other than the reaper - Death.

The train of life, took you smoothly to the afterlife. As for the stops - hadn’t his parents gotten off his train, the day they died? The final stop was his, a choice to make, to get off this train and leave his old life behind, something he had longed to do since he had received the news about his parents.

Charlie’s heart leapt with joy at the thought of seeing his parents again.

It all - everything - illuminated the main purpose of his life, the track beneath, leading him to

new places, to new adventures. After all, death didn’t mean leaving your life, but simply

journeying into a new chapter of life. And the hooded figure - he was Death.

Charlie looked at Death. He accepted the reaper’s hand, and stood up. As Charlie stepped off the train, he looked back at the fading tracks—he knew that this wasn’t the end. It never was, and it never had been.

And standing there in the dark, gloomy night, he recalled the question that had brought him to train 12:42. Charlie turned to the reaper, his voice trembling as he spoke for the first time since boarding the train.“Who drives our train?” he asked, emphasising the word “our”.

Death’s skeletal face broke into a bony grin. He looked at Charlie, and there was comfort in his gaze.

‘We do.’

Written by : Krisha Gehi