Chapter 3: The Unseen Interview

March 7th pressed her ear against the door of the fourth car, the metal cold and humming with a faint vibration that didn't match the Express's usual rhythm. “I’m telling you, I hear breathing,” she whispered, gripping her camera like a talisman. Welt stood two paces back, his cane planted firmly on the carpet. “It could be the train’s atmospheric regulators. Don’t open that door.” “But we have to talk to them—whatever it is,” she insisted. “It’s not like they’re a monster. They just… appeared.” Dan Heng leaned against the corridor wall, datapad glowing in his hand. “The biometric signature hasn’t changed. Steady, humanoid, but no identifiable species in the Archive. Heart rate: 72. Respiration: 14 breaths per minute. Whoever—or whatever—is in there, they’re calm.” “Too calm,” Welt muttered. “That’s what worries me.” March 7th ignored him and cracked the door open. A sliver of light fell into the dark compartment. Inside, a figure sat in the same chair as before, face obscured by a swirling haze, hands resting on its knees. It wore a simple gray coat, no insignia, no luggage. The air around it shimmered as if heat radiated from its skin. “Hello?” March 7th’s voice quavered. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to know who you are.” Silence. Then a voice, soft and layered like echoes in a canyon: “I am the one who waits.” Welt stepped forward, cane raised. “Waits for what?” “For the train to remember me.” The haze around the figure thickened, obscuring its form further. “I boarded long ago. I have always been here.” Dan Heng typed rapidly. “That matches the anomaly. The Express’s internal logs show a passenger manifest entry from over seven hundred years ago—but the name field is blank. The file is corrupted, but the train still considers it valid.” March 7th lowered her camera. “So you’re like… a ghost? A time traveler?” “Neither. I am a forgotten purpose. The Express carries not only people, but intentions. Some intentions never reach their destination. I am one of them.” The figure raised its head, and for a moment, two faint points of light flickered where eyes should be. “You cannot touch me because I am not here to be touched. I am here to be seen.” Welt’s jaw tightened. “Why now? Why reveal yourself after all this time?” “Because the train has chosen a new conductor. Someone must know what it carries besides passengers.” The figure extended a translucent hand toward March 7th. “You have no memory of your own past. Do you not wonder why the Express accepts you so easily? You, too, are a passenger without a ticket.” March 7th stumbled back, camera clattering to the floor. “That’s—that’s not true. I have amnesia, but I’m real.” “Reality is a ticket that can be reissued.” The figure began to fade, its outline dissolving into motes of light. “The doors will open when you understand: every forgotten thing on this train is part of your story.” The compartment fell silent. The chair was empty. The hum ceased. Dan Heng knelt to pick up March 7th’s camera. “The biometric signature is gone. Just… gone.” Welt stared at the empty seat. “We need to search the Archives. Every log, every diary, every scrap. If that thing is tied to March’s past, we have to find out how.” March 7th looked at her own hands—still solid, still warm—but now she wasn’t sure if that meant anything at all. “Let’s start,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I want to know what I forgot.”