The Last Train

The station clock read 11:47 PM. In thirteen minutes, the last train would arrive, and Marcus would have to decide.

He sat on the worn wooden bench, the same one where they had met five years ago. She had been reading a book—something by Murakami, he remembered—and when she looked up, the world had tilted slightly on its axis.

Now, two tickets lay in his hand. One to the city, where a job waited. Security, stability, everything practical and sensible. The other to the coast, where she had moved three months ago, where his heart had been ever since.

"Sometimes," his father had said, "the safe choice is the one you regret forever."

A young couple walked past, hand in hand, laughing at some private joke. An old man dozed on a nearby bench, his newspaper slipping from his lap. The station cat prowled the platform, hunting shadows.

11:52 PM.

Marcus closed his eyes, thought of morning coffee brewing in a tiny apartment overlooking the sea. Thought of her laugh, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she concentrated, the warmth of her hand in his.

11:57 PM.

He heard the train's whistle in the distance, a lonely sound cutting through the night. His hand tightened around one ticket.

When the train pulled in, Marcus stood. The doors hissed open. He took a breath, stepped forward, and chose.