I pulled the book out, the plastic crinkling in the silence of my underwater world. Through the clear sleeve, I could see the pages were bone-dry and the colors of the illustrations were vivid and bright. How could something so fragile survive the Atlantic for even a single day, let alone years?
I looked up quickly, scanning the dark corners of the car, feeling the weight of a thousand invisible eyes. My flashlight caught the driver’s console at the front, where a small conductor’s keychain dangled from a lever. It swung gently back and forth, as if the train had only just come to a halt.
Every instinct told me to turn back and swim for the surface, but the mystery held me like a physical grip. I moved toward the front of the car, my fins stirring up fine clouds of sand from the floorboards. The air in my tank was getting low, but I needed to see who—or what—had been driving.
As I reached for the conductor’s keychain, a sharp, metallic *clack* echoed through the entire wagon. I spun around, my light darting wildly, searching for the source of the sound in the cramped space. One of the seat trays had dropped down on its own, right behind where I had been standing.
Sitting perfectly in the center of the tray was a white paper cup, standing upright and filled with a dark liquid. It hadn’t been there when I swam past that row just seconds ago. I hadn’t seen it, hadn’t touched it, and there was no one else in the car with me.
Top Articles
