Chapter 7: The Ticketless

From Hurried Ascensions
by Esi Noire

There were people standing in the next car.

Not shadows. Not passengers. Not memories.
People. Solid and breathing, but flickering at the edges like they might vanish if asked the wrong question.

Rene stepped forward slowly.

They stared at her. All of them.
No one spoke.

She counted nine. Each dressed in clothes that didn’t match the age of the train. A nurse in 1960s scrubs. A man in a red Civilian Conservation Corps uniform. A barefoot child with a handkerchief pinned to her chest that said “Dayton – 1921.”

“Who are you?” Rene asked.

One woman stepped forward. Her hair was silver, but her eyes glowed like new copper.

“We are the ones who were never allowed to board. Not fully.”

Rene blinked. “But you’re here.”

“We’re between,” the woman said. “We were given no ticket. No burial. No truth. So we ride, half-in, half-lost.”

Rene’s heart pounded.

“How long have you been here?”

The woman shrugged gently. “Until someone names us.
Until someone tells the story.”

Rene stepped closer. She didn’t know why, but her hand reached up, touched the child’s kerchief.

The girl didn’t flinch. Just smiled softly.
“I like your voice,” she said. “Will you remember me when you wake up?”

Rene knelt and whispered: “I will do more than that.”

And something inside the car clicked into place.