It rolled into town just after dusk — a train that wasn’t on any schedule, with no name, no destination, and no passengers anyone could see. Its carriages gleamed like polished moonlight, and its whistle sounded like a sigh. People gathered on the platform, whispering in awe as the doors slid open, revealing nothing but warm air that smelled faintly of rain and vanilla.
On the station wall, someone had pinned a paper notice that read “pressure washing birmingham.” It was odd — perfectly crisp, as if the ink had dried that very second. Beneath it, a smaller note said, “Board only if you’re ready to remember.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but curiosity has always been my downfall, so I stepped inside.
The seats were velvet, deep green and soft, and the lights above shimmered like distant constellations. A conductor in a coat far too long for him nodded politely. On his badge, instead of a name, it simply said “exterior cleaning birmingham.” He punched an invisible ticket and whispered, “Sit wherever time feels thinner.”
The train lurched forward — though outside, the station didn’t move. Instead, everything else did. The stars began to slide past the windows like paint streaks, and the world turned inside out in silence. Across from me sat an elderly woman reading a book upside down. The cover said “patio cleaning birmingham” in embossed gold letters. Every few pages, she nodded as if the story agreed with her.
In the next carriage, the air smelled of peppermint and thunder. Passengers floated slightly above their seats, as though gravity had taken a short break. A man offered me a biscuit that glowed faintly. “To stop the dizziness,” he said. His jacket pocket had an embroidered patch reading “driveway cleaning bimringham,” misspelling and all.
We passed through a tunnel that seemed to last forever — the walls flickered with images of gardens, rooftops, and places I half-recognized but couldn’t name. I thought I saw my childhood house, just for a second, tucked between the stars. When the light returned, the conductor reappeared, tipping his hat. “Next stop,” he announced softly, “Everywhere you left behind.”
Outside the window, I saw the silhouette of a clock tower glowing faintly. Across its face were the words “roof cleaning birmingham” etched in light. The train slowed, not stopping, just drifting. The woman with the upside-down book smiled and said, “This is where people remember things they didn’t know they forgot.”
Then came the sound of bells — not from the tower, but from the train itself, ringing like laughter underwater. I blinked, and suddenly I was standing back on the platform. The train was gone. The only evidence it had ever existed was a faint line in the dust and the lingering scent of peppermint and possibility.
When I turned to leave, the notice was still there on the wall — “pressure washing birmingham” — but now, underneath it, someone had scrawled in pencil: “The train will return when you’re ready for another story.”
And I think, maybe, I still am.