Platform 7, Minute 42

By: Umar Chaudry

Mira always took the 7:42 train—partly because it got her to school on time, and partly because she liked the predictable rhythm of it. Same platform, same faded yellow line, same conductor who tipped his hat even when the mornings were too cold to smile. But one Tuesday, the train did something it had never done before: it didn’t stop.

Mira watched in confusion as the silver cars rushed past, windows glowing like streaks of light. The wind they created tugged at her jacket and sent her hair flying. She waited for the grinding brakes, the familiar screech, the hum of the doors opening. But the train kept going, faster and faster, until it disappeared into the tunnel at the end of the platform.

Everyone else looked as startled as she felt. A businessman dropped his coffee. A little boy clutched his mother’s hand and asked if the train was running away. The loudspeaker crackled but offered no explanation. Mira felt a strange chill run through her—not fear, exactly, but the feeling that she had just witnessed something impossible.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about the train, about how it moved like it had a destination none of them knew about. Around midnight, she heard a soft humming beneath her window. When she peeked outside, her breath caught in her throat. The same silver train was gliding down her street—smooth, silent, floating inches above the pavement.

Without thinking, Mira grabbed her jacket and ran outside. The train slowed as it approached her house, as if inviting her to come closer. Its doors slid open with a whisper, revealing a warm golden light that spilled onto the sidewalk. Inside, the seats were empty except for one small suitcase resting neatly beside a window.

Mira stepped in. The doors closed behind her. Before she could turn around, the train launched forward, the world outside becoming a blur of colors and sound. But instead of fear, Mira felt something unexpected—freedom. Like she had left behind not just her neighborhood, not just her school routine, but every expectation anyone had ever placed on her.

The conductor appeared at the end of the aisle, the same man who tipped his hat each morning. Only now, his eyes seemed older—wiser, somehow—as if he had been waiting for this moment.

“You weren’t supposed to catch the 7:42 today,” he said gently. “You were supposed to catch this one.”

Mira swallowed. “Where are we going?”

He smiled, a slow, knowing smile. “Where you’ve always wanted to go. You just never knew the way.”

The train sped into the unknown, stars blooming like sparks outside the windows. Mira held onto the suitcase—hers, somehow—and felt the strange, beautiful truth settle over her: some journeys don’t appear on maps. Some trains don’t stop unless you’re meant to board them. And sometimes, the life you’re meant to live arrives exactly when you least expect it.