Last Stop

By Julian Denney

Sun beamed through the windows, giving the store a warm, comfortable atmosphere. The only noise to emanate from the outside was birdsong and an ever-distancing train. It was hard to put together a clear image of the horizon on the other side of the glass—bright advertisements cluttered the panes, obscuring the flower-speckled fields and blue skies.

A muffled melody rang out alongside the screeching of brakes as the train came to a stop outside, marking the arrival of the newest passengers. The station’s platform was the only infrastructure besides the cozy gas station for miles—the only two things obstructing a place otherwise unmarred by human hand.

His job was a calming one; seldom was the store populated by more than ten people at once. Typically, the folks coming through were older—some were embittered by age and ego, but many were content to wait the extra time for another customer to fumble around in their wallet or double back for a forgotten fountain drink. The only consistent sound aside from the whispered nature was the repeating beep, beep of scanning barcodes dotting the ends of sentences as customers checked out.

A gentle chime interrupted the rhythm, followed by the gentle click of a door falling back shut. An older woman entered, at least in her 60s. Her dress was adjacent to a well-loved school librarian; eccentric colors, glasses, and a knowing countenance only achieved with true life experience. The sun beaming through the windows landed on her skin and brightened her pale features, as though it was revitalizing a fading life. 

The store was soon empty for all but her and the cashier, her browsing and him simply idling. He appeared younger than most who passed through—only looking to be in his teens, though his nametag was faded as if it had faced decades of wear. His complexion had a warmer undertone compared to the older woman. By the time she came to the counter, she only held two items to lay down.

“Will that be all for you, ma’am?”

“Yes.” She had a genial tone to her voice, crow's feet at the corners of her eyes wrinkling as she broke into a habitual grin. They were quick to fall back into the typical flow of the exchange—small pleasantries and depthless questions interspersed with adages and anecdotes, each tidbit a small enlightenment for living life well.

“You know, I loved traveling by train when I was younger. Watching the scenery go from mountains to plains within the blink of an eye was always breathtaking. I’m excited to see where this one goes.”

He nodded passively. The woman simply continued.

“And you?”

He found himself paused for a moment, trying to find some surface-level response; something to continue the conversation. He had nothing he could relate with. When he thought about it, he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember any sweet smell of the flower fields, couldn’t recall a vision of hills unobscured, and couldn’t even remember his own name. He’d grown not just comfortable in his position of monotony, but fearful of what would happen if he left it.

“I… can’t remember traveling much. Most of my life revolves around working here.”

The woman seemed unsatisfied with that answer, though not upset.

“That’s no life to live, sweetheart. Living is what happens outside of work and responsibility. It’s the one thing you should remember.”

He hummed with thought, furrowing his brow. Her items were already bagged, and he could hear the train coming—knew it meant the inevitable arrival of more people—but he found himself invested in what was meant to be a trivial conversation. He felt his shoulders falling as he kept coming up with blanks. She kept her eyes trained on him, waiting for a reply. Only when none came did she continue.

“When was the last time you left his place, sweetheart?”

“...I’m not sure.”

“Do you want to?”

“...”

She seemed to know the answer before he did. Casting a glance out the window, seeing the gaps of blue sky in between the posters, he realized he did. The harder he thought about it, the more he realized he hadn’t quite lived; he’d been there when each new advertisement had been pasted to the window, and he’d been there as their colors were faded and edges ripped. Had it not been for his cleaning, the store surely would’ve boasted a thick coat of dust by now.

He distantly noticed himself fumbling with his nametag, a nervous habit he’d had when he first took over for the last clerk. They’d given it to him alongside the keys before stepping out for the next train, leaving him to take over entirely. As he looked at it, he realized it never held a name—just a blank slate overriding his identity, clinging to his shirt with a pin he now unclipped. 

It was like a fog cleared as he set it down on the counter before him. The woman smiled reassuringly, as though she could sense the anxiety of both losing a part of himself and reclaiming another. She offered a hand to guide him, the bags long since forgotten as he accepted. 

Distantly, the train horn blared again, a screeching of brakes soon accompanying it as it came to a halt outside. This time, he finally stepped out from behind the counter, moving to get a clear view out of the glass panels of the doors. It wasn’t sensational, no flashing glamor of state-of-the-art technology, but it was liberating, like seeing the stars in the night sky for the first time. He found himself giddy taking it in.

His keys jangled with every step toward the door, his hand trembling just slightly as he grasped the hem of his shirt for comfort. For the first time, the horizon was unobstructed; the hills rolled into a vanishing point, clouds being lit from beneath by the gradually setting sun. The train tracks contrasted the overgrown grass and blooms, but not jarringly—small buds still pushed through the gaps between the slats, bright petals accenting the aged metal. Faded paths were cut parallel to the rail where animals had settled for walking.

Finally, he willed up the courage to push open the door, a faint breeze greeting him. His hand stayed pressed against the cool glass for a moment before he finally let it fall shut once again, fumbling with the keys for a moment before locking it shut. He tugged on the door once for good measure, only being met with a slight shudder and a resistant click. He found himself stuck for a moment as he took in the store from the outside. It was quaint and inviting despite the somewhat dated clutter, like it was a scene from a 1999 retro-toned cinema.

As the train came to a gentle halt, he could make out more people than he’d anticipated in the cars—not packed together, but still with a few seats left open. Despite the sun illuminating each of their faces, they still seemed cold—ashen. Despite it, none of them appeared somber; expressions ranged from accepting to anxious, but nothing of true distress. Only a handful of glances were spared at the now-locked store, with a majority opting to continue hushed conversations or silent admiration of the rolling hills.

The atmosphere remained peaceful as he finally stepped through the entryway onto a car. The woman took a seat, gesturing for him to come sit beside her. A gentle hum of machinery rang as the doors closed, the train lightly shuddering as it began to move forward once again. He found himself enamored with the vivid blur of color outside the windows, listening to barely audible conversations beginning to fill the car once again.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“This reminds me of my childhood.”

“I can’t wait to see my grandma again. It’s been years.”

Each bump of the tracks felt as though it lifted another weight from his shoulders. Gradually, conversations began to drift in directions.

                             “I haven’t seen my husband since we were in our 40s, I hope he’s been waiting for me.”

“I hope I’ll come back as a bird, I never got the chance to fly.”

“I hope I did enough in life.”