Death spoke to me

on the side of the road,

as the sun sank beneath the horizon

and stained the sky red.

Death spoke to me

after the EMTs fussed over me,

after the officers talked to me

in low, somber tones,

after my parents were put in bags

and taken away.

Death spoke to me,

seated at my side

in a tailored suit of black silk,

as I stared at the wreckage of the car

that first responders had cut me out of

and tears rolled silently down my face.

Death spoke to me

in a voice that was

raspy as grating tombstones,

choked with grief,

soft with respect.

Death spoke to me

on the side of the road,

under the blood-red sky

and said, “I’m sorry.”

Death stood by me

as I shook hands, accepted hugs

and listened to everyone remember.

Death stood by me

for the entire three-hour wake,

silent and steady and strong.

Death stood by me

as the priest spoke over their caskets,

as we carried my parents out of the church,

as we left for the cemetery.

Death stood by me

as I addressed everyone

in a voice clogged with tears,

when they lowered my parents to the ground,

when they covered the graves.

Death stood by me

and never once left my side.

Death followed me

as I continued on through life,

as I lived and lost,

as I grew and aged.

Death followed me

through time,

as weeks turned to months

turned to years,

as the tailored suit gave way to

a simple shirt and slacks.

Death followed me

through decades of triumphs and failures,

silent and steady and strong.

Death followed me,

and I never once thought to ask why.

Death chastised me

when I slowly struggled to wake

on a cloudy afternoon,

with plaster around my arm

and machines beeping by the bed.

Death chastised me

after the doctor updated me on my status,

after the nurse gave me more medicine,

after I spoke with my visitors.

Death chastised me

in a tone meant for parents speaking

to naughty children

or for someone speaking

to a loved one.

Death chastised me,

and I smiled and listened to that familiar voice

and fell back asleep comforted

that I was not alone.

Death came for me

on a peaceful, spring morning,

as birds sang in the trees

and the earth came back to life.

Death came for me

as I sat on my porch,

my old bones folded onto a bench

and covered in wool.

Death came for me

in a black shirt and jeans

and asked in that familiar

raspy-choked-soft voice,

“How long has it been

since we met on the side of that road?”

Death came for me on a peaceful, spring morning,

as the sun rose above the horizon

and the birds sang their songs,

after decades of adventures

and mishaps

and happiness

and grief,

Death came for me,

and together,

we stood,

and together,

we left.

Death came for me

and took my hand

as I smiled and said, “Hello.”

IT’S A nondescript map for a nondescript train. Dusty and tired, but functional. I glance at it again, idly counting stops against the clack-clack-rattle of the rails echoing through the car.

“Which stop?” the guy across from me asks.

I glance at him. It’s a quiet night—just the two of us, and some teenage couple whispering sweet nothings to each other. “Next one,” I say. “You?”

“Second to Last.” He eyes me. “You ever wonder what the last stop is?”

I make a vaguely inquisitive noise. We’re nearing my stop, so I start to gather my things.

“The end of the line,” the guy presses. “Where is it?”

“After your stop,” I suggest, just as we pull into the station. I stand, nod my head at him, and step onto the platform.

It isn’t until the train’s pulled away, wind tugging at my clothes and hair, that I pause to look at the map painted on the station’s wall. I track the thin colored line from the start, habitually counting stops until I reach my own. But this time, I keep going, reach Second to Last, then—

There’s nothing. The color has faded away, leaving an empty hole in the map. I look back at the guy’s stop. Literally called Second-to-Last. But if that’s true…

“Then what’s the last stop?” I murmur.

Another train screeches into the station, and I turn, walking upstairs to greet the fading sunset as I head home.

THE FOLLOWING night, I’m seated next to an elderly woman dexterously working on her knitting. “Where do you think the last stop is?” I ask her, trying for casual.

“What?” she asks, in the overly-loud tone of the hearing impaired.

I repeat my question more loudly.

She shrugs. “Whatever it is, they closed it long before my time. Hasn’t been an end of the line since I was a girl. You can go as far as Second to Last, but that’s all.”

I glance at the miniature map pasted over the doorway. Just like the station’s, it fades away after Second to Last. Nothing but dust and wall.

I get off at my stop and journey up the stairs, trying to clear the tunnel before that wind from the train’s departure catches me again and tries to pull me back underground.

I almost succeed.

JUST OVER a week later, the guy gets in the same car as me again. “You’ve been thinking about it,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

I nod. “A lady told me there hasn’t been anything after Second to Last since she was a kid.”

The guy smirks and leans across the aisle just as the train enters a tunnel. The yellow light catches on his eyes, makes them shimmer in the sudden dark. “Have you heard the stories about everyone who went missing?”

“Missing?” I echo, heart inexplicably racing.

The man hums. “They all tried to ride this train beyond Second to Last. And none of them were ever seen again.”

We emerge from the tunnel, abruptly cloaked in sunlight. “Probably kids just messing around,” I manage to say. In the sun, his eyes are a neutral hazel.

He smiles, the curve of his lips sharp as a knife. “Probably. Kids these days.”

My own words ring hollow in my ears. It feels like an eternity before we arrive at my stop.

I PULL out my computer over dinner that night. It doesn’t take long to find the articles. Mysterious disappearances, adolescent shenanigans gone wrong.

It doesn’t make sense.

I’M READY for the guy the next time I see him. He gets on at a later stop than before, and he sits directly across from me. I lean forward.

“Do you know what happened to them?” I ask.

“Here’s a better question,” the guy says, grinning. “Who’s driving this train?”

The clack-clack-rattle slows, and I stare, mind spinning. My first instinct is to say, The same kind of person who always drives trains. But that same instinct said there was a stop after Second to Last, and there isn’t.

There are never any announcements, no greetings over the speakers from the person standing behind the levers and gears. It’s always been a completely silent ride, filled only with the noise from the rails and the train’s passengers.

I stare at the guy, equally amazed and terrified at how quickly he has shown me the inconsistencies in things I had always taken at face value.

“It’s your stop,” the guy says, the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. “I’ll catch you later.”

I blink and try to focus on the world again. It takes a moment before I can gather my things and depart.

The wind tugs at me as it always does, and I briefly consider letting it pull me back, just to see where it takes me.

IT HAUNTS me. The missing train stop, the missing conductor, the missing kids. I try to research more, spend hours staring at my computer screen when I should be focusing on work, but there’s no information to find. Everybody else is in the same state of compliance I was, just focusing on going to work or going home and not bothering to ask any other questions.

It’s easier not to know.

THE NEXT time that guy gets on the train, I shoot him a sideways glare. He laughs. “You have too many questions and not enough answers, huh?”

“It’s all your fault,” I say. “If you hadn’t asked me—”

“Questions are the spice of life.” He sits next to me, this time, leaving one seat between us. I turn to face him fully and try not to ask myself if his eyes are really yellow or if it’s the weak lighting from the train.

“You know,” the guy says, lips curled in that same smirk, “I can provide some answers. You just have to ask.”

I blink. Then blink again.

“You can think about it,” the guy says. “I’ll find you.”

He stands just as we pull into the station. “Wait,” I say, and I grab my things and run off the train after him.

I pause. Look around. I don’t know this stop.

“Where are we?” I ask.

The man smiles. It’s a pleasant smile, smooth, no hint of teeth, but it still sends a chill down my spine. I turn back, look at the deserted tracks. I didn’t even hear the train leave. No wind tugging at my clothes.

“Where are we?” I ask again.

“End of the line,” he says, and he holds out his hand. I glance down and distantly take note of nails, filed to sharp points. His eyes are unavoidably yellow, gleaming in the shadows of this abandoned stop.

“This wasn’t the last stop,” I say, trying to catch up.

“That would be too easy,” the man says. He grins now, showing off teeth with points that match his nails. “Well? You coming?”

I turn back one last time and stare at the abandoned tracks. Nowhere to go but forward. I take his hand.

IT’S A nondescript map for a nondescript train. Dusty and tired, but functional. I glance at it again, idly making sure I’m going in the right direction, counting minutes against the clack-clack-rattle that fills my days and nights.

Every day, I drive the train. I sit behind the gears and levers and watch people come and go. They don’t know I’m here. They don’t even think to ask. It’s easier not to ask, because nobody has to answer.

Then, when the last passenger has left, and I’m sitting at Second to Last, I reverse my direction and go to the End of the Line.

He’s always waiting for me, smirk in place, hand outstretched. I step off the train and match his grin. Our eyes gleam at each other, twin pairs of yellow shining in the dim light.