The Tunnel

 

A Railway Story

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A short story inspired by a photograph taken during a wonderful journey on a steam train from Pickering to Whitby, across the Yorkshire moors and passing through pretty and unspoiled stations with my beautiful wife, Angela, to whom this story is dedicated.

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Sarah was early this morning. Well, she was always early, and today was no exception. The platform was empty except for the faint clatter from the tearoom, where Mrs Ashworth was preparing for the breakfast rush.

The crisp air was colder than usual. Sarah’s breath drifted in soft clouds as she waited for the 7:52 — the train that would take her to the next town, then a bus, then a short walk to the office where she had just begun work as a junior typist. She loved it. Six girls in the typing room, three seniors, two other juniors, and Margaret, the firm but fair supervisor. Most mornings Sarah made tea for everyone. She didn’t mind. She liked feeling useful.

The smell of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee filled the air. Crockery clinked. Mrs Ashworth hummed a tune Sarah didn’t quite recognise — something old-fashioned, wistful. It made the station feel older than it was, as though it belonged to another time entirely.

Soon the peaceful sounds would be replaced by the deep, rhythmic breathing of the steam locomotive as it emerged from beneath the iron road bridge, the air tightening briefly as it passed under the stone arch.

The boiler man was already shovelling coal. Steam hissed. Soot drifted upward and clung to the canopied roof. The stone walls were blackened from decades of smoke, though the station master insisted the windows remain spotless. They gleamed in the early light — almost too clean, Sarah thought, as though someone polished them obsessively.

She skipped along the platform, her Audrey Hepburn dress swaying with each step, white socks and bright red flats. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, framing her bright blue eyes.

She reached the second-class carriages, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor. She was looking for compartment 13 — her favourite. Her lucky number. She always felt it was a lonely number, so she had claimed it for herself years ago.

The compartment was as familiar as ever: dusty upholstered seats, luggage racks, oak veneer panels, mirrors with the railway logo, and heavy curtains tied with gold rope. The ceiling, once white, had yellowed with age and smoke. Sarah settled into her usual seat, middle of the front bench, facing forward. She had done so for as long as the memory belonged to her.

The journey would take forty minutes. Three stops, one tunnel, then the 8:28 arrival. Plenty of time to catch the 8:30 bus. Plenty of time to reach the office by nine. Unless there were delays — but there seldom were.

She waited anxiously for him. Her stomach fluttered. He always arrived at the last moment, rushing from the ticket office with his Macintosh coat billowing like a cape, hat in one hand, battered briefcase under his arm. She closed her eyes and wished he would choose her carriage.

He always did.

The door clicked. Sarah opened her eyes.

There he was — slightly out of breath, ruggedly handsome. He removed his coat, folded it neatly, placed it on the opposite bench, set his hat on top, and sat down. He held his briefcase on his lap as though it contained something precious. He glanced at his watch just as the guard’s whistle pierced the air.

The train shuddered awake. Doors slammed. Smoke billowed past the window, momentarily obscuring the platform. For a second, Sarah thought she saw someone standing very still near the far end of the platform — a figure watching the train — but the smoke swallowed them before she could look twice.

She turned her attention to the stranger. His dark hair was slightly unruly, his jaw strong, his shoulders broad. His suit was expensive, but his shoes were muddy, as though he had walked across a field. His hands were small and soft — unusual for a man who always seemed so serious.

She wished he would say hello. But he turned to the window, staring out with a distant, troubled expression. As though he were listening for something.

The countryside blurred past. Fields of corn, grazing cows, rocky outcrops, woodland. The rhythm of the train was soothing, but Sarah noticed something odd — the stranger kept glancing at the corridor door, as though expecting someone to enter. Or perhaps hoping they wouldn’t.

He opened his briefcase and pulled out the morning paper. The pages were slightly crumpled, as though handled many times. He folded it to read the sports section, but his eyes didn’t seem to follow the words.

Who was he? Where did he live? Why did he always leave one stop before hers? Why were his shoes always dirty? Why did he never speak?

The train slowed as it approached the second station — the one that always made Sarah sad. The one where he always left.

Even before the train stopped, he stood, put on his coat and hat, checked his reflection in the mirror — though for a moment, Sarah thought his reflection looked paler than he did — and stepped into the corridor.

She watched him walk along the platform and disappear down the country lane. She always wondered where he went. She always imagined answers.

Then she noticed he had left his newspaper behind.

She stood, thinking she might catch him, but the whistle blew, the doors slammed, and the train pulled away.

She sat again, lifting the newspaper onto her lap. The paper felt oddly cold — as though it had been left outside overnight.

The headline read:

“Anniversary of Historic Rail Crash.”

She frowned and read on.

“Today marks the tenth anniversary of the tragic derailment of the morning train to the coast. A young local girl, seated in compartment 13, was among those killed…”

Sarah’s breath caught.

A strange stillness settled over the compartment. The familiar hum of the train seemed to fade, replaced by a low, distant echo — like a memory trying to surface.

Her eyes drifted to the window. For a moment, she didn’t see her reflection. Just the empty seat behind her.

Then the train plunged into the tunnel.

Darkness swallowed everything.

But this time, the darkness felt different — not outside the train, but inside her. A coldness she recognised without understanding why. A weight she had carried for years without ever feeling it.

The wheels clattered over the tracks, but the sound was muffled — as though she were hearing it from far away.

And then she heard a voice. Soft. Close. A whisper she had heard once before, long ago.

“Sarah…”

She turned, but the compartment was empty.

The train burst out of the tunnel into daylight.

The newspaper lay open on the floor. The headline stared up at her.

She reached down to pick it up — but her hand passed straight through the page.

Sarah froze.

Outside the window, the countryside rolled by, bright and alive. Inside the compartment, she sat very still, her outline faint in the glass.

For the first time in ten years, she understood why the handsome stranger never spoke to her.

He couldn’t see her.

He never had.