It was one of those strange days when nothing seemed to happen at all. I stared at the window as the train glided forward with unusual gentleness. The sky was grey, the glass damp with rain, and the clouds hung low without a hint of life in them. Only the rainbow remained, a bow stretching far beyond the reach of the eye.
Today, the ride was smooth. The atmosphere inside the train was calm, almost restful, as though the world itself had decided to pause and breathe. I took in every second of it; inhaling deeply, then exhaling against the cold glass, tracing a small heart shape with my finger through the mist.
I had been on the train for as long as I could remember. There were always new faces, but there were faces once seen and never again. The train itself never truly stopped. It only moved forward. Always forward. There were stories of people getting off the train. I wondered how and when.
My early years on the train were filled with excitement. I ran through coaches without fear, laughing loudly, making friends easily, carrying out the little tasks assigned to me as though they were grand adventures. There was always something to discover: another coach, another stranger, another story. The train never lacked wonder. It kept me alive. Curious. Moving.
Mum and Dad were always there then, teaching me the rules of life aboard the train. I remember sitting between them, watching forests and rivers blur past the windows while Mum explained which coaches to avoid and Dad pointed out the features of the beautiful landscapes as though he had never seen them before.
I remember the first time I tried to get off.
At the time, it had seemed harmless — exciting, even. The train had slowed at one of its rare stops, and I had stepped toward the open doors out of curiosity. But then I saw a side of Mum I had never known. The fury in her eyes; the fear buried beneath it.
“Never get off the train,” she had said sharply. “No matter what.”
She wouldn’t listen to my excuses.
What confused me most was that, years later, Mum herself got off the train.
Back then, it had been the three of us against the world. But slowly, things changed. Mum became weaker. Her laughter grew quieter. Her hair began to fall out, and she wrapped colourful scarves around her head every day. Dad always looked worried, even when he smiled.
We stopped wandering through the coaches. We settled into one of the private suites where the curtains remained drawn most of the time. I stayed beside her whenever I could.
Then one morning, sunlight spilled warmly across my face after a long night of staring into the darkness outside. Beyond the glass was a breathtaking landscape, green hills rolling endlessly beneath mountains crowned with mist. Peaceful. Beautiful. Alive.
But Mum was gone.
Dad sat silently in the corner, his eyes red, his lips trembling as though words had abandoned him.
“Mum got off the train,” he whispered.
And after that, we never spoke about it again.
Dad was never the same. He hardly left the suite anymore, while I forced myself back into the moving life of the train. Years passed. I wandered through familiar coaches that still carried echoes of my childhood. The older I got, the more I noticed something unsettling: the train only slowed long enough for some people to leave. I wondered when my time will come.
The weather outside changed constantly. Rainstorms gave way to sunlight. Forests became deserts. Landscapes vanished into oceans and mountains rose where valleys once lay. Yet the train kept moving.
No one knew who the captain was. But sometimes, over the crackling speakers above, a voice would speak. Calm. Steady. Strange. Move to the next coach. Avoid that seat. Go home.
And somehow it always felt like the voice was speaking directly to me.
One afternoon, I decided to take a chance. I slid open the window.
Opening windows was reserved for those who had come of age on the train, those considered ready to experience the world beyond the safety of the glass. Cool air rushed in immediately, carrying the scent of rain, soil, and distant trees. I closed my eyes and let it wash over me.
That was when he sat down across from me.
His eyes were closed too, his face tilted slightly toward the breeze. Peace rested on him so naturally it was hard not to stare. Then he opened his eyes. They didn’t attack. They reassured me. Dark golden-brown against a quiet white canvas.
Gbolahan.
After that day, he seemed to appear everywhere in my life. Sometimes we shared the same open window, talking for hours about the changing landscapes and the endless mystery of the train itself. We dreamed about exploring coaches we had never seen before.
Sometimes he disappeared for days into other parts, yet somehow we always found each other again. Occasionally by accident, but mostly by choice. With him, conversations felt lighter. We spoke about frustrations, fears, and hopes. Sometimes about life aboard the train. Other times about Dad, who never truly recovered after Mum got off. I told Gbolahan about the nights Dad wandered toward the exit whenever the train slowed down, his eyes fixed longingly on the open doors. Every single time, I brought him back.
Gbolahan understood me in ways no one else ever did.
He was always there when I needed him. Offering laughter, reassurance, or simply silence that didn’t feel empty. The train had become more crowded over the years, the coaches tighter, the air heavier. But around him, something impossible happened. Space widened. Breathing became easier. And for a little while, getting off the train no longer frightened me.
On my thirtieth birthday, Gbolahan insisted we celebrate.
“The train only moves forward,” he told me with a grin. “We’ll never stand in this exact moment again.”
So we celebrated. We locked down an entire coach, filling it with music, food, and friends I didn’t even realise I had gathered over the years. Dad sat quietly in the far corner, speaking little, his gaze fixed on the passing world outside the window.
It wasn’t a grand celebration. But it mattered. The hours disappeared too quickly. Laughter echoed through the coach. Memories were made faster than I could hold onto them.
Then, at half past nine, the train jolted violently. A sudden stop. People screamed. Glass rattled. The doors swung partially open as chaos swept through the coach. And in the confusion, Gbolahan missed his footing.
I caught his shirt.
For one desperate moment, I thought I could pull him back. But his tear-filled eyes met mine, and gently he pried my fingers away. Otherwise, it would have been both of us. And then he was gone.
And the train moved on. Just like it always did.
Rain fell heavily that evening. I returned to my seat beside the window, numb with grief, watching blurred lights and shadows disappear into the distance. The glass was wet again, just as it had been before. Slowly, I raised my hand and traced a heart into the mist. Outside, somewhere beyond the storm clouds, a rainbow stretched endlessly across the sky.
And for the first time, I finally understood what Mum had meant all those years ago.