The 11:47 PM train was never on time. That’s what the locals said, and they all had their own stories about it. Some claimed it was a ghost train, others that it was a portal to another world. No one knew for sure, but no one ever tried to ride it. Not really. But I did. I wasn’t looking for trouble. I was just late for work, and the regular trains were delayed due to “technical issues.” The station was empty except for an old man in a moth-eaten coat, who sat on a bench like he had been waiting for decades. He didn’t look up as I approached, but I could feel his eyes on me. It gave me the creeps, but I ignored it. I had no choice. The 11:47 train arrived with a low, mournful whistle. The doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a car that looked like it had been abandoned for years. The lights flickered, casting long shadows on the cracked seats. A few people stood inside, all of them dressed in outdated clothing—old-fashioned suits, frayed dresses, hats that seemed out of place in this century. None of them moved when I stepped inside. They just stared. The door closed behind me with a heavy thud. The train started moving, but there was no sound of wheels on tracks, no hum of electricity. Just silence. The air felt thick, like I was breathing through a veil. I noticed that the windows were fogged over, but outside, there was nothing—just blackness. No city, no tunnels, just endless void. One of the passengers, a woman in a red dress, turned to me. Her face was pale, her lips cracked and dry. She smiled, and I saw that her teeth were too white, almost glowing. “You’re late,” she said, her voice like wind through broken glass. “I’m sorry,” I replied, unsure if she was real or not. “I didn’t know this train ran at night.” She laughed, a sound that echoed strangely in the cabin. “It doesn’t. But you’re here now. You always are.” I felt my pulse quicken. “What do you mean?” She leaned closer, her breath cold against my ear. “You’ve been on this train before. You just don’t remember.” Before I could ask what she meant, the train stopped. Not with a jolt, but with a smooth, unnatural halt. The lights went out, plunging the car into darkness. Then, slowly, the lights came back on—but everything had changed. The passengers were gone. The seats were clean, the walls unmarked. I was alone. I stepped out onto the platform, which was exactly like the one I had left. The same old man sat on the bench, still staring into the distance. I turned to him. “What just happened?” He finally looked at me. His eyes were hollow, but his voice was calm. “You took the 11:47. That’s all you need to know.” “Is it always like that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. He nodded. “Some people come back. Others… don’t.” I didn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about the woman in the red dress, her smile, her words. What did she mean by “you’ve been on this train before”? I had never seen the 11:47 before tonight. Or had I? The next day, I found myself standing at the station again, drawn there by something I couldn’t explain. The 11:47 was running. The doors opened, and the same passengers were inside, waiting. I hesitated, then stepped aboard. This time, I didn’t ask questions. I just sat down and watched the world outside disappear into the dark. Maybe the 11:47 wasn’t a train at all. Maybe it was a mirror, reflecting something we weren’t meant to see. And maybe, some of us would never return.