3.In Transit

Claine stood still for a long moment, his back pressed lightly against the cold edge of the carriage door, fingers twitching with unease. The eerie encounters from the second carriage clawed at his mind, their absurdity and dread clashing against his desire for rationality.

He had spoken to people—if you could call them that—but none of it made sense. None of it felt real. And yet, it was real. Tangible. Close enough to feel the breath of it on his skin.

The lights in the ceiling hummed faintly as he passed back through the door into the empty carriage he'd woken in. It had become a sort of neutral zone for him now. Familiar in its strangeness. But even that comfort was crumbling.

He sat down again in the same seat by the window, watching the world blur by outside. But it was different now. The train wasn't gliding past those impossible landscapes anymore—it had slowed. Outside was a desolate plane of rust-colored sand. Scattered across it were thin, jagged towers, some leaning at precarious angles.

In the sky above, black clouds churned in spiraling loops, pulsing inward like a vortex refusing to form. At times, the horizon flickered—like a screen glitching—and was momentarily replaced by flickers of the previous nightmares: the reverse ocean, the red dot sun, the frozen collapsing city.

Claine leaned back, breathing heavily. He clutched the metal edge of the seat, grounding himself with the cool texture. But then the lights above flickered too.

Something had changed.

The carriage ahead called to him. Or maybe warned him. Either way, he couldn't stay still anymore.

He passed through again. The woman at the window hadn't moved. The man with the war book now held it upside down, muttering numbers instead of words.

Claine turned to the next carriage.

The door opened with more resistance than before. It groaned, as if the metal itself resented his passage. The moment he stepped in, his breath caught.

This carriage was dim. Not from broken lights—but from an unnatural gloom that soaked everything in it. Shapes were seated, motionless, but this time they didn't appear frozen by choice.

The air was heavier.

Claîne took a step forward.

He noticed a small child sitting alone at the far end. Her hair was braided tightly down her back, and her hands clutched a doll. The doll's face was stained with what looked like old soot or dried blood, hard to tell in the shadows. She didn't look at him, but she hummed.

It was a tune Claine felt he knew. A lullaby, maybe. From before? From when?

He knelt carefully beside her.

"Are you alright? Do you know where this train is going?"

The girl stopped humming. Then turned slowly toward him. Her face was...normal. Calm. But her eyes glistened with water, wide and unblinking. She whispered, voice paper-thin:

"I'm not supposed to talk to the real ones."

Claine blinked. "What? The real ones?"

She looked past him.

"You're not from here."

Claine stood back up quickly, the hairs on his arms rising. "Where is here?"

The girl began humming again, louder this time. The air around her shimmered, distorting like heat waves. Her body didn't move an inch, yet her presence stretched, elongated. Her shadow, cast by no light, crawled up the walls.

Claîne backed away, nearly stumbling over one of the bolted seats.

He turned around.

Everyone else in the carriage had turned their heads toward him.

All at once.

Motionless until now, they stared—blank faces, empty expressions. Some had mouths stitched shut, others wore thick glasses that reflected nothing. Their clothes were inconsistent—one wore a business suit caked in mud, another a funeral dress soaked at the hem, one in robes that shimmered like oil slicks.

Claine dashed to the door at the far end and pulled it open.

Nothing. Beyond it, no carriage. No tracks. Just blackness.

A void.

He stumbled back. Closed the door again. The watchers had returned to their previous positions, as if nothing had happened. The girl's hum was now a screech in his ears, pitched just high enough to fray the edges of his nerves.

He retreated.

Back through the previous carriage.

Back to the window lady.

She was gone.

The seat she'd occupied was soaked, as though someone had just stepped out of a lake. But the reflection in the window was still there—her fiery red eyes, locked forward, unblinking, still searching.

Claine screamed and slapped the window with his palm.

The reflection didn't mimic the motion.

Instead, it smiled.

He ran.

Back to the first carriage. The only place that didn't shift under his feet like a dream crumbling.

But the first carriage was no longer empty.

A figure stood at the far end. Tall, draped in a black overcoat that dripped water onto the floor. He wore no face.

Not covered. Just...none. Skin like pale clay where features should be. As if he was never meant to be seen.

Claine froze.

The figure raised a hand.

And pointed at him.

The lights dimmed.

Claine's breath came in short bursts. He turned to the window. Outside, the scenery had returned. But now it was layered. The collapsing city lay overtop the white world, the reverse ocean bled into the horizon, and the children walked backward across the sunlit sky.

All at once.

Reality was compressing, folding in.

He looked back. The faceless figure was now closer.

Claine backed into his seat and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the train was dark. Only the emergency red light above the door flickered.

No figures. No passengers.

No sound.

Just him.

And the hum of something vast approaching.