I finally returned to the coordinates a month later, desperate to put the book back and end the haunting. I dived alone, despite the danger, carrying the plastic-wrapped prize back down into the dark. But when I reached the seafloor, the sand was smooth and undisturbed.
The tracks were gone, buried under ten feet of silt, or perhaps they had never been there at all. I dug frantically with my hands, clawing at the sand until my gloves tore, but I found nothing but shells and salt. The train, the tracks, and the mystery had vanished into the blue.
I left the book there, weighted down by a lead diving weight, hoping the ocean would take back its secret. As I ascended, I looked down one last time and saw a faint, flickering light deep beneath the sand. It looked exactly like the headlight of a locomotive pulling out of a station.
I never went back to those coordinates, and I sold my diving gear a week later. The messages stopped, but the feeling of being a “passenger” has never truly left me. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I’m back in that aisle, staring at a cup of coffee that never goes cold.
The world is full of things we aren’t meant to find, and some doors, once opened, can never be truly shut. My father always said the sea keeps its secrets for a reason. Now, I finally understand that some trains don’t run on tracks—they run on the memories of the things we leave behind.
Top Articles
