The Night I Missed My Stop

Dear diary. I have done it again.

It was a Tuesday, which is the most honest night of the week. Nobody pretends Tuesday is special, so it quietly becomes special all by itself. I had spent the evening walking along the river, watching the bridges switch on one by one, and by the time I reached the station the clock above the platform was already counting down to the last train.

The last train is my favourite train. It is never full. It hums instead of rattles. The lights inside are a little softer, or maybe I am a little softer by then. I took my usual seat, the one by the window at the end of the carriage, pulled my beanie down over one eye and told myself the same thing I always tell myself.

Six stops. Stay awake for six stops.

One more station

The first station went by. Then the second. A man with a cello case got off. A woman with a sleeping toddler on her shoulder got on, and the toddler opened one eye, looked at my beak, and smiled at me as if we were members of the same secret club. We probably were.

At the third station the doors sighed open and closed again, and the carriage swayed in that gentle way that makes a jacket feel like a duvet. I remember thinking: I will just rest my eyes until the next one.

That is always the moment, isn’t it? Not a big decision. Just a small, soft one. One more station with my eyes closed.

Nah… just one more. The city will still be there when I open my eyes. It always is.

The end of the line

When I woke up, the train was perfectly still. No hum. No announcements. Just the faint tick of the carriage cooling down and a long strip of yellow light on the floor from the platform outside.

I had never been to the end of the line before. I had seen its name on the map a hundred times, printed in small letters at the very edge, the place where the coloured line simply stops. I had always imagined it would be grey and empty and slightly sad.

It was not sad at all.

The station was tiny, with tiled walls the colour of peach ice cream and a single bench under a clock that was four minutes slow. Beyond the exit, there were no towers or busy streets. There was a hill. A real hill, with grass silver in the moonlight, and above it the whole night sky, navy and enormous, with little pink clouds drifting across it like they had somewhere gentle to be.

I walked up the hill. Of course I did. I sat at the top and looked back at the city, which was glittering far away like someone had spilled a jar of tiny lights across the horizon. From there, every street I had walked that evening looked like a thin golden thread.

The night driver

I must have sat there for a while, because when I came back down to the station, there was a figure standing by the train with a flask and a thermos cup. It was the driver. She had finished her shift and was about to take the empty train back to the depot.

“You were asleep,” she said. “Front to back, every station. I didn’t have the heart to wake you. You looked very content.”

I told her I usually am.

She laughed and offered me some warm cocoa from her flask, and we stood on the platform for a few minutes talking about the things you can only talk about after midnight. She told me she had been driving the night line for years and that her favourite stretch was the bit where the track comes out of the tunnel and runs alongside the river, just before dawn in summer, when the water turns pink. She said most passengers never see it because they are looking at their phones.

“And you?” she asked. “Where were you actually going?”

I had to think about it. Home, I suppose. But home would still be there in the morning. This conversation would not.

The ride back

She let me ride back in the first carriage while she took the train to the depot. Rules are rules, and I think she bent one only slightly, the way kind people do. The train glided back towards the city, and this time I stayed awake for every single station. I counted them. I read their names out loud. I watched the river appear outside the window, black and silver, exactly where she said it would be.

She dropped me at a station near my street and waved through the little window of the cab. I waved back with my whole wing.

I walked the last few blocks home slowly. There was no reason to hurry. The streets were empty and the air smelled of rain that hadn’t arrived yet. The bakery on the corner already had its lights on at the back, someone getting the dough ready for the morning.

What I learned (again)

I know what you are thinking. Puffin, you missed your stop. You got home hours late. You will be sleepy tomorrow.

All true. But here is what I also got:

• A hill I didn’t know existed, with the best view of the city I have ever seen.
• A cup of cocoa from a stranger who was not really a stranger by the end.
• The river at night, seen properly, with my eyes open.
• A new favourite station, with peach tiles and a clock that runs four minutes slow.

Sometimes the stop you miss takes you somewhere better than the stop you meant. Not always. But often enough that I have stopped setting an alarm.

If you want to try your own slow ride across the city after dark, I have collected a few favourite lines in One More Stop: Night Metros of Europe. And if you need something to listen to on the way, there is always the playlist for the last train.

Just remember to look out of the window. And if you nod off, I hope someone kind lets you sleep.

Stay a little longer. — P.