There was a knock on the door and a letter slid underneath it. The ink was smudged, as if the writer had hesitated before finishing their words. Henry Calloway turned the letter over in his hands, feeling the texture of aged paper beneath his fingertips. A faint scent of lavender filling his room.
He sat at his cramped desk in his apartment. The dim glow of his oil lamp casting a long shadow against the peeling wallpaper. Outside, the city thrived with life, but here, in this small, forgotten corner of the world, Henry felt like the only person who existed.
The letter had arrived with no return address. The handwriting was delicate yet deliberate. A small note and a folded paper.
"Mr. Calloway,
We know you seek stories to tell, and I believe we have one to offer. Come join here in Warmout, and we will give you a story no one else knows.
Enclosed is a train ticket. Your seat is already reserved. The train departs at midnight. It's rude to be late.
—A Friend."
Henry ran his hand through his hair, rereading the note. It wasn't uncommon for him to receive anonymous tips, but this… this was different. It wasn't a plea for help or some teen's troll. It was an invitation.
He unfolded the train ticket, and a chill ran down his spine. There was no listed destination. Only the departure time—12:00 AM—and the word Warmout embossed faintly at the bottom, as if it had been pressed into the paper rather than inked.
He had never heard of the place. No maps, no articles, nothing in any of the dusty archives he had spent his career combing through. Yet, the name carried a strange familiarity, as if he should know it.
"Midnight… That is only a few hours from now."
Henry exhaled, staring at the letter once more. He had nothing to lose. His last article had been rejected, his rent was overdue, and the city…loud, restless, and uncaring, had long stopped feeling like home.
A hidden town. A story no one else could tell…
He grabbed his coat. He was going to Warmout.
…
The station was nearly empty. A single lantern flickered above the platform, its weak glow barely reaching the edges of the night. Henry Calloway tightened his coat against the cold, the weight of the letter and train ticket pressing against his chest.
The train sat idle before him, its dark metal frame stretching into the fog. It wasn't like any locomotive he had seen before. The design was old…far older than what should still be in operation. The rivets along the sides gleamed under the lantern's light, polished as if freshly built, yet the wood of the passenger cars carried the scent of aged oak.
A whistle pierced the silence.
Henry hesitated. There was no conductor in sight, no station worker announcing the departure. The train simply existed, waiting.
Stepping forward, he reached for the handle of the nearest car door. It swung open effortlessly. Inside, warm candlelight flickered along the walls, casting soft shadows over red velvet seats and polished brass fixtures. It was elegant…too elegant for a train with no passengers.
He took a seat near the window. Outside, the platform remained deserted. The city skyline was barely visible through the fog, its towering structures fading like a distant memory.
Then, without a single jolt or warning, the train began to move.
Henry straightened. There had been no call for boarding, no sound of coal igniting or wheels grinding against the tracks. Just a smooth, silent departure.
He glanced around. Still, no other passengers.
Then he noticed the carriage door at the far end. It had been closed when he entered. Now, it stood slightly ajar.
A sliver of darkness peeked through the gap, and in that moment, Henry had the distinct and unshakable feeling that he was no longer alone.