The Ticket Collector

Rain pounded the glass windows of the speeding train. The soaking landscape outside blurred by as we

moved along the tracks. Green fields splattered with mud that was being turned into puddles by the storm. A

small cabin stood alone somewhere in the distance.

My head rested on the cool train window, leaving a ring of mist every time I lifted it.

The compartment door slid open and a man in a black coat and hat walked in and approached a middle

aged woman sitting near me, most likely to collect tickets. I turn to the small black backpack beside me. I didn’t

have much in there, so it didn’t take that long to find what I needed: a small navy blue notebook where I tucked

my ticket to keep it from getting lost.

I grabbed the little piece of paper from its warping pages, then sat back and waited for the ticket

collector.

A few minutes passed, yet the man had not yet reached me. I peek into the aisle and saw that the man

was now sitting across from the woman. His black hat and coat poked out from behind his chair, a leather

briefcase resting beside his boots.

The woman’ s eyes were filled with anxious anticipation. I couldn’t hear any of their conversation, but it

seemed she was trying to explain something to the man.

She must have lost her ticket, I thought to myself. I tightened my grip on my own, feeling sorry for the

woman but still glad I wasn’t her.

I lean back in my seat, eyes lingering on a river parallel to the train. The water was murky, and it was

clear it was flooding. The raging flow splashed at its banks, weathering away loose rocks.

Finally, the woman stood up, dabbing away the sweat that formed on her forehead as she dragged her

luggage out the sliding door.

The cloaked stranger now approached a man holding a baby. The child slept soundly in his father’s

embrace, unknowing of the stranger who had just sat down across from them.

I watched a bit longer, the father handed his ticket over, but the man pushed it away. This time, my

view was not abstracted. I watched as the man slid two notebooks in front of the father. One thick, one thin.

The father looked confused, but opened the thicker of the two.

As he flipped through, his eyes widened.

Figuring it would be a while until the man reached me, if he was coming at all, I turned back into my

seat.

I wasn’t aware of falling asleep, nor did I know how long it had been since I did, but when I opened my

eyes again, the train was empty.

I looked around, thinking I must have missed my stop.

I stood slowly, my limbs heavy and my breath catching somewhere between confusion and fear. The

compartment, once humming with quiet life, was hollow now. Empty seats. No luggage. No murmur of

conversation or distant cries of babies. Just the soft drone of the train beneath my feet and the rain’s drumming

on the windows.

I slid open the compartment door and stepped into the next train cart. The lights flickered slightly

above me, bathing the corridor in a cold bluish glow. I passed car after car, all empty.

Then, up ahead, I saw him. The black coat, the wide-brimmed hat, the leather briefcase that never

seemed to move far from his reach.

He had nothing in front of him except a thick notebook. As I approached, he didn’t look up.

“Excuse me,” I said, surprised at how small my voice sounded in the cavernous silence.

Without a word, he gestured to the seat across from him. I hesitated, then sat.

The man finally lifted his head. His eyes were dark. Not menacing, not kind. Just endless.

He slid the notebook across the tray table, tapping the cover twice as if inviting me to open the cover.

When I didn’t, he finally spoke.

“This one,” he said,“is everything you’ve lived. Every experience you’ve had, but it also includes everything you’ve missed”

I stared at it. The cover was worn, the spine was cracked and worn like it had been flipped through a

thousand times. My name was etched faintly into the leather.

I didn’t know what to say. I reached for the book and opened it. I turned pages, each one filled with

scenes I recognized. My childhood bedroom. The first day of school. My first kiss. A broken promise. A birthday

I’d spent alone. A thousand things. Big and small. Some I’d forgotten entirely until I saw them again.

My eyes moistened, missing a time that feels like a far away dream.

Sprinkled in between these memories were other ones I didn’t recognize. I saw my face in a hospital bed,

but I didn’t remember ever being there. A childhood crush who had moved away. A job I never took. A vacation

I canceled last minute. Faces I never met, and yet felt achingly familiar. Decisions unmade. Paths unfollowed.

The last pages showed the river from earlier, now violently overflowing. The train… derailing.

I looked up, my hands shaking.

“ Am I dead?” I asked, though I already knew.

The man in black didn’t answer, simply placing a pen and another notebook on the table. This one was

brand new and empty.

“What is this?” I whisper, nervous.

“ A choice,” he said, standing now and taking his briefcase. “You can stay with what was. ” He looked at the worn pages in my hands, then at the untouched notebook. “Or move on to what might be.”

I nod, I understood. Slowly, I let go of my life’s story, fingertips landing on the second notebook. My

hands trembled over the empty pages. The train began to slow.

The man tipped his hat, turned, and walked out through the compartment door, swallowed by a

sudden white light and drifting off into the wind.

Everything was quiet.

I stared down at the blank book.

And began to write.