This short story is one of a series of so-called “light horror” stories. The story is divided into two parts: the main part and the epilogue. You may try to delve into what is actually going on in the main part, and the answer will be unveiled in the epilogue.
The moon was high up in the sky. It is said that a plenilune meant reunion and homesickness, but nobody on the last train of Line 4 ever thought about it.
The last train was whooshing, scudding in the crisscrossing tunnels underground. The noise was just loud enough to keep everyone awake but drowsy. Only pure darkness could be seen outside the window. The train was hard, metal, fast, full of life, yet also lifeless, engulfed in pitch black.
Hokuto was sitting near the door, relying on the partition. It was 23:45, a quarter to midnight. Everyone was more or less sleepy. The robotic sound of the train announcement reminded passengers that the train was arriving at the Kisara Station.
The electric lights began to flash outside the window, followed by the vast platform, which was devoid of passengers. The familiar chime sounded. A man, who was wearing a jacket, boarded the train casually. Hokuto was scrolling through his cellphone, without noticing the man.
The doors sealed with a final chime, and silence descended once more.
The man approached Hokuto, seemingly wanting to talk with him.
“Excuse me, sir,” the man inquired, his voice unnervingly polite. “May I ask… if you are 55 years old?”
“No,” Hokuto answered. “I am only 28 years old. I mean, it’s quite obvious that I am not over 30.”
The man didn’t respond to Hokuto, and he walked to another woman at a trot. Asking the very same question. Hokuto shrugged, shifting his eyes back to the screen.
“Are you 45 years old?”
“Yeah…I guess?” The woman sounded startled.
“Are you 65 years old?”
“That’s correct. A good guess, young man.”
Methodically, the man traversed the carriage, soliciting ages. His guesses landed with uncanny precision, each figure chillingly accurate.
Hokuto peered over the rim of his glasses, gazing at the man.
He missed mine… yet he knows theirs… intimately. He possesses their current ages… somehow.
It was 23:50, ten minutes to midnight. The train was marching like a gleam of light in the darkness.
“Are you 17 years old?”
“Yes.” The girl confirmed, offering a tentative smile. “Though technically, I am ten minutes to eighteen.”
Her voice faded as the train slid into Omoro Station.
The train door slowly opened, and a gust of cold air wafted into the carriage. Nobody could be seen on the serene platform. Nonetheless, the man swiftly got out of the train in reticence. Rather than disappearing in the night scene, He stood still on the empty platform, gazing at the passengers inside the carriage.
“Something was off,” Hokuto murmured. He somehow met the man’s eye, though his eye didn’t betray anything other than apathy. Following his intuition and a vague feeling, Hokuto decided to get off the train. Though he was a little bit tentative about that, as it was the last train, he might need to find a hotel.
The door slowly shut behind Hokuto’s back. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the moan of the wind whipping along the platform’s edge.
Hokuto watched the train, a diminishing ribbon of light, until it was swallowed whole by the darkness of the black tunnel.
The wind cut across the deserted platform. Hokuto turned to the silent man.
“Well,” the man said, his voice flat. “That was close.”
Hokuto stared. “What?”
“We escaped from the Grim Reaper. Just now. On that train.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hokuto said, confusion warring with unease.
The man shrugged. “Fine.” He looked away, then back at Hokuto, his gaze direct and unsettling. “…Wait for the newspaper tomorrow morning.”
A cold gust whipped between them. The man’s next words were clear, yet so vague.
“By the way. You will die when you are fifty-five. Believe it or not.”
