It was a late-night ride, the kind where the world outside is nothing but darkness and the rhythmic clatter of wheels lulls passengers into uneasy silence. David boarded with his backpack, searching for an empty seat. The carriage was nearly deserted—except for one man sitting near the window.
He looked to be in his forties, dressed in a dark suit that seemed slightly out of style, the kind you’d expect to see in old photographs rather than on a commuter train. When David sat nearby, the man glanced up and smiled.
“You don’t mind a little company, do you?” he asked.
David shook his head, and soon enough, they were talking. The conversation flowed easily. The man knew about literature, history, even David’s favorite childhood books. Hours passed as the stranger told stories that felt oddly personal, as if he had known David his entire life.
At one point, David laughed and said, “You talk like you’ve known me for years.”
The man smiled faintly. “In a way, I have.”
The words chilled him, but before he could ask what he meant, the train slowed for David’s stop. He stood, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Well… maybe I’ll see you again.”
The stranger nodded. “Not on this train. But we’ll meet again, I promise.”
As David stepped off into the cool night air, he glanced back. The seat was empty. He frowned. The man hadn’t followed him off—but no one else was in the carriage either. He must have slipped away quietly.
The next morning, curiosity tugged at him. He mentioned the man to the conductor, describing the dark suit and the seat by the window. The conductor’s face grew pale.
“That’s impossible,” he said firmly. “No one sat there last night. That section was completely empty.”
David insisted, but the conductor shook his head. Then, almost reluctantly, he added: “You’re not the first to say you’ve met him.
Passengers sometimes see a man in a suit on that route. He… died in a crash on this line nearly thirty years ago.”
David’s mouth went dry. Later that week, he dug through old newspaper archives. Sure enough, there it was: a photo of the crash victims. And among them, clear as day, was the face of the man he had spoken to.
Since then, David avoids that late-night train. But sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he hears the man’s calm voice promising, “We’ll meet again.”
