The door didn’t groan or resist; it slid open with a smooth, mechanical click that defied decades of saltwater submersion. A soft puff of silt billowed out, swirling around my mask like a grey ghost before settling. I stepped—or rather, floated—into the narrow center aisle.
The interior was a time capsule of a lost era, with plush velvet seats that looked remarkably preserved. Seaweed drifted through the open doorway, mimicking the movement of curtains swaying in a gentle, subterranean breeze. The silence inside the car was different—heavy, expectant, and utterly absolute.
I panned my light across the rows, expecting to see skeletons or at least the skeletal remains of luggage. Instead, the floor was clean, and the seats were upright, as if waiting for a morning commute that would never arrive. Then, my beam landed on something that made me stop dead in the water.
In the third row, a small child’s backpack sat strapped neatly into a seat, its bright blue fabric clashing with the rust. It looked brand new, devoid of the silt and decay that covered the rest of the cabin. I hovered over it, my mind racing through every logical explanation and finding none.
With a shaking hand, I reached for the zipper, which moved as easily as if it had been greased this morning. Inside, wrapped tightly in a waterproof plastic sleeve, sat a hardcover book. The title mocked me from the depths: “My First Train Ride.”
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