The humid air of Chittagong felt unusually heavy tonight, clinging to the skin like a wet shroud. Kashem stood at the edge of the old railway platform, his boots inches away from the rusted tracks that seemed to disappear into an unnatural, swirling mist. For miles around, the world was silent. There were no distant car horns, no humming of city generators—nothing but the erratic flickering of a single yellow light overhead, buzzing like a dying insect.
Kashem looked down at his reflection in a murky puddle on the concrete. He saw a man in his late twenties, eyes tired from years of staring at data streams and complex algorithms. As a senior data analyst, he was used to finding patterns in chaos. But tonight, the patterns didn't make sense.
He checked his smartphone. 12:00 AM. Suddenly, the screen glitched. Bright, neon-green lines slashed through the display, and the digital clock began to transform. The numbers didn't just change; they bled into the background, warping into ancient, dusty Roman numerals. Within seconds, the phone felt ice-cold in his hand, and the screen went black.
"Great," Kashem whispered, his voice sounding thin in the vast emptiness of the station. "Just what I needed."
As he moved to put the phone back in his pocket, a low, guttural vibration began to shake the earth beneath his feet. It wasn't the smooth, aerodynamic hum of a modern high-speed train, nor was it the rhythmic clanking of a heavy freight engine. This was something different. It was a violent, metallic thumping—the sound of massive iron pistons driven by high-pressure steam. It was the roar of a machine that belonged to a century long dead.
From the heart of the mist, a massive obsidian-black locomotive emerged. It didn't just roll onto the platform; it seemed to tear its way through the very fabric of the air. The engine was a monster of iron and brass, covered in soot that smelled of ancient coal and something metallic, like dried blood. Instead of white steam, a thick, silver-blue vapor leaked from its pipes, curling around the platform like ghostly fingers.
Screeeech!
The train groaned to a painful halt. The sound was deafening, like a thousand iron chains being dragged across jagged glass. Kashem's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the pulsing of the engine. As the wooden carriages settled, he peered through the fogged-up windows.
Inside, he saw passengers. They were not modern commuters. They were figures from another era, dressed in tattered Victorian gowns, heavy overcoats, and formal top hats. But their faces—their faces were what made Kashem's blood run cold. Their skin was the color of pale parchment, stretched tight over bone, and their eyes were hollow voids, staring into a distance that didn't exist in the three dimensions of his world.
Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain exploded in Kashem's right arm. He let out a strangled cry, falling to his knees as he gripped his forearm. It felt as if a branding iron was being pressed into his flesh. He frantically pulled up his sleeve and gasped in horror.
A mark was burning itself into his skin. It was a glowing blue brand in the shape of an ancient lighthouse, its light pulsing with a ghostly radiance.
"Subject 001: The Analyst," a cold, mechanical feminine voice echoed. It didn't come from any speaker on the platform; it seemed to vibrate directly inside his skull. "The temporal rift has reached maximum stability. The Dead Express is ready for the final harvest. Initiating reality deletion in T-minus sixty seconds."
Kashem scrambled to his feet, terror finally overtaking his shock. He turned to run toward the station exit, but the stairs were gone. The ticket counter was gone. Even the distant city skyline was vanishing. They were turning into blue digital pixels, flickering like a corrupted video file before falling away into an endless, silent black void. Reality was being overwritten by a void.
"Kashem..."
The voice was soft, melodic, and carried a weight of sorrow that broke through his panic. It was a voice he hadn't heard in twenty years—not since his grandfather had walked onto this very platform and disappeared without a trace.
"Grandpa?" Kashem choked out, tears stinging his eyes.
He looked toward the third carriage of the train. A door had slid open with a sound like grinding bone. There, standing in the dim light of a swaying oil lamp, was a silhouette he recognized.
"Step inside, Kashem," the voice pleaded, sounding like an echo from a deep well. "If you stay on the platform, you will be deleted. You will be nothing. The 1884 line is the only path that remains."
The train gave a final, mournful whistle. It didn't sound like steam; it sounded like a collective human scream of agony. Kashem looked back at the void that was now only feet away, eating the platform he stood on. He had no choice. He lunged forward, his hand gripping the cold, frost-covered iron rail of the carriage.
The moment his foot touched the wooden floor of the train, the world behind him vanished into total darkness. The doors hissed shut with finality.
The interior of the carriage was a relic of the past. Rich mahogany wood, velvet seats, and brass fittings were covered in a layer of fine, grey ash. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and ozone. At the far end of the aisle stood a woman dressed in a heavy black veil. In her gloved hand, she held a single, wax-sealed blue envelope.
"Welcome aboard the Dead Express, Analyst," she said, her voice like cracking ice. "The journey to the end of time has officially begun. I hope you find the answers you seek, for the price of this ticket has already been paid in blood."
The train gave a violent jolt, and instead of moving forward, Kashem felt a sickening sensation of falling—plunging downward through the layers of history into a world that should have stayed buried forever.