“It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.

“Elias pulled the collar of his wool coat up over his ears, his breath pluming in white clouds before him. He stood alone on the platform of the Blackwood Ridge station, a solitary figure against the encroaching night. The tracks, usually gleaming steel ribbons, were now buried under a foot of fresh powder, smoothing out the world into a silent, white expanse.

He wasn’t a passenger. Elias had been the stationmaster here for forty years, and tonight was his final shift. The station was being decommissioned at midnight, replaced by the automated hub three towns over.

Most men would have packed up and left at noon when the storm warning came through, but Elias had a duty to the schedule. The 6:05 express was the last train that would ever pass through Blackwood Ridge, and he intended to see it off properly.

He checked his pocket watch. 6:02.

The wind howled, rattling the loose pane in the ticket booth window behind him. Elias lit his kerosene lantern, the flame sputtering before catching hold and casting a warm, golden circle against the blue-grey twilight. He held it high, a beacon in the storm.

Then he felt it before he heard it—a deep vibration in the soles of his boots. A low whistle cut through the gale, mournful and long.

Through the swirling snow, a single beam of light pierced the gloom. The massive engine emerged from the treeline, grinding to a slow, screeching halt in front of him. Steam hissed violently, melting the snow on the platform’s edge.

The conductor leaned out, tipping his cap. “Last one out, Elias?

“Elias looked at the empty station, the shuttered windows, and the tracks that would soon rust in the mountain air. He looked at his lantern, then blew out the flame.

“Aye,” Elias said, climbing aboard. “Last one out.”